UMMRSITY  CF  CAL:rCR:\IA 
AT    LOS  ANGELES 


HAVERFORD  ESSAYS 


Studies  in  Modern  Literature 


Prepared  by  Some  Former  Pupils  of 


PROFESSOR  FRANCIS  B.  GUMMERE 


In  Honor  of  the  Completion  of  the  Twentieth  Year  of  His 
Teaching  in  Haverford  College 


HAVERFORD,  PA. 
190'J 


HAVERFORD  ESSAYS 


Studies  m  Modern  Literature 


Prepared  by  Some  Former  Pupils  of 


PROFESSOR  FRANCIS  B.  GUMMERE 


In  Honor  of  the  Completion  of  tlie  Twentieth  Year  of  his 
Teaching  in  Haverford  College 


HAVERFORD,  PA. 
1909 


■PN 

5\  \ 


INDEX 


PAGE 

The  Logic  of  Akoument— C.  G.  Hoag,  A.M 1 

On  Milton's  Knowledge  of  Music— S.  G.  Spaeth,  A.M.       .       .    .    37 

Geobge  Hkrbekt:   An  Interpretation — W.  S.  Hinchman,  A.M.  .    .    69 

The  Younger  Wordsworth — C.  H.  Burr,  A.M 91 

Vita  Nuova,  Chapters  24  to  28— A.  G.  H.  Spiers,  AM Ill 

Some  Franco-Scottish  Influences  on  the  Early  English 

Drama— J.  A.  Lester,  Ph.D.    .    .  129 

Heine  and  Tennyson:  An  Essay  in  Comparative  Criticism 

— C.  W.  Stork,  Ph.D 153 

The  Franklin's  Tale— W.  M.  Hart,  Ph.D 183 

Ipomedon:     An    Illustration    of    Romance   Origin — C.  H. 

Carter,  Ph.D 235 

The  Moors  in  Spanish  Popular  Poetry  Before  1600 — W.  W. 

Comfort,  Ph.D 271 


214621    ' 


•i 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT 
X  

^\^^  By  Claeence  Gilbert  Hoao,  A.M. 


If 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT. 

Argument  or,  as  it  is  called  in  the  text-books,  argnmenta- 
tion  is  now  made  the  subject  of  regular  courses  of  study 
in  American  colleges.  A  correct  view  of  its  logical  struc- 
ture is  therefore  much  to  be  desired. 

The  views  presented  in  most  of  the  current  special  text- 
books^ and  in  the  chapters  on  argument  in  the  current  books 
on  general  rhetoric  are  evidently  based  largely  on  the 
pioneer  text-book  in  this  field,  Professor  G.  P.  Baker's 
Principles  of  Argumentation,^  revised  by  Baker  and 
Huntington  in  1905.  And  in  that  book  the  logic  of  argu- 
ment is  not  explained,  it  seems  to  me,  either  correctly  or 
adequately. 

Works  on  logic  furnished  to  the  authors  of  this  book 
theories  enough  of  the  isolated  syllogism  and  the  isolated 
induction,  but  no  adequate  account  of  the  logic  of  ex- 
tended discourse.  Works  on  legal  evidence  furnished  them 
with  principles  normally  applicable  to  a  legal  case  but 
usually  inapplicable  to  what  the  book  was  especially  in- 
tended to  give  instruction  on,  namely  arguments  on  ques- 
tions of  public  discussion  or  academic  debate:  in  a  legal 
case  the  conclusion  in  question  usually  covers  a  concrete 
fact,  for  example,  Smith  is  guilty  of  murder  in  the  first 
degree  or  Jones  owes  Brown  fifty  dollars,  and  the  evidence 
is  usually  some  kind  of  testimony,  whereas  in  arguments 

^  Tlw  Art  of  DeMte,  by  R.  M.  Alden,  Henry  Holt,  1900. 

The  Essentials  of  Argumentation,  by  E.  J.  MacEwen,  Heath, 
1900. 

Argumentation  and  Debate,  by  C.  Laycock  and  R.  L.  Scales, 
Macmillan,  1904. 

"Giun  and  Company,  1895. 

(3) 


4  CLARENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

on  questions  of  public  discussion  or  academic  debate  the 
conclusion  usually  covers  a  proposal  as  to  what  should  be 
done,  for  example,  Chicago  should  huy  and  operate  hei\ 
street  rmliuays  or  United  States  Senators  should  he  elected 
hy  direct  vote  of  the  people,  and  the  evidence  is  usually 
not  testimony  of  any  kind.  And  these  writers  made  the 
mistake,  it  seems  to  me,  of  taking  over  into  their  own 
book  i3art  of  what  the  logics  taught  on  the  isolated  single 
step  in  reasoning  and  of  what  the  legal  works  taught 
on  the  principles  of  legal  evidence  without  sufficiently 
working  over  the  two  bodies  of  material  and  correlating 
them  to  each  other  and  to  the  third  body  of  material 
which  they  developed  more  independently,  that  is,  the 
principles  of  brief-drawing.  The  result  is  that  their  book 
is  far  astray  in  respect  even  to  so  fundamental  a  matter 
as  the  application  to  argument  of  the  distinction  between 
induction  and  deduction  and  that  its  teachings  in  respect 
to  the  principles  of  logic,  the  j^rinciples  of  legal  evidence, 
and  the  principles  of  brief-drawing  or  structure,  are  al- 
most altogether  uncorrelated  with  each  other. 

I  make  these  criticisms  not  in  a  carping  spirit  but  only 
to  justify  my  present  attempt  to  analyze  the  logic  of 
argument  anew. 

To  substantiate  my  criticisms  briefly,  I  Avill  simply  cite 
and  comment  on  some  passages  from  Baker  and  Hunt- 
ington's influential  book. 

The  following  passage  is  from  page  109 : 

''Summary  of  the  Kinds  of  Evidence.  Evidence,  as 
we  have  seen,  consisting  of  facts,  the  opinions  of  author- 
ities, and  reasoning  (inferences  from  the  facts  or  opin- 
ions) can  be  classified  as  testimonial  and  circumstantial, 
facts  and  opinions  being  testimonial  and  inferences  being 
circumstantial.       Testimonial    evidence    needs    no    sub- 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  5 

division  beyond  the  natural  division  into  facts  and  the 
opinions  of  authorities,  since  the  same  tests  are  applicable 
to  all  witnesses  and  to  all  authorities.  Circumstantial 
evidence,  however,  can  be  more  surely  tested  if  we  sub- 
divide it  into  deductive  and  inductive  reasoning.  Deduc- 
tive reasoning,  moreover,  for  our  purposes  may  be  tested 
without  considering  the  subdivisions  which  formal  logic 
applies  to  it.  Inductive  reasoning,  on  the  other  hand,  it 
is  helpful  to  separate  somewhat  arbitrarily  into  generaliza- 
tions, arguments  based  on  a  causal  relationship,  and  argu- 
ments based  on  resemblance.  In  the  section  that  follows 
it  will  be  Avell  to  bear  these  classifications  in  mind,  for 
they  are  helpful  as  guides  to  the  tests  to  be  applied." 

This  makes  "reasoning"  a  "kind  of  evidence,"  co- 
ordinate Avith  "facts"  and  "opinions"  grouped  together. 
But  surelv  reasonins;  is  not  a  kind  of  evidence  at  all  but 
the  process  of  reaching  a  conclusion  from  evidence.  More- 
over, the  passage  makes  induction  and  deduction  sub- 
divisions of  circumstantial  evidence  and  consequently  ex- 
clusive of  testimonial  evidence.  But  induction  and  deduc- 
tion play,  of  course,  exactly  the  same  part  with  testimonial 
evidence  that  they  do  with  circumstantial.  When  I  reason 
"from  authority,"  for  example,  to  the  conclusion.  Such  and 
such  an  act  is  treason,  I  am  reasoning  deductively  from  the 
two  premises,  say,  Whatever  BlacJcstone  says  is  treason 
is  treason  and  Blachstone  says  that  such  and  such  an  act 
is  treason.  And  the  deductive  syllogism  is  involved  in 
the  same  way  in  the  case  of  reasoning  from  ordinary 
testimonial  evidence  not  classed  as  evidence  "from  author- 
ity:" when  I  reason  to  the  conclusion,  Jones  was  the 
murderer,  from  the  testimony  of  Smith  and  Bro^ATi,  I 
am  reasoning  deductively  from  two  such  premises  as  these. 


6  CLAEENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

first,  Whatever  Smith  and  Brown  agree  on  luithout  col- 
lusion, in  a  case  in  which  they  have  no  motive  to  lie,  in 
luhich  they  had  good  opportunity  to  ohserve  the  facts,  etc., 
etc.,  is  true,  and  second,  Smith  and  Brown  agree  that 
Jones  luas  the  murderer,  without  collusion,  having  no 
motive  to  lie,  etc.,  etc. 

The  passage  makes  '"generalizations"  a  subdivision  of 
inductive  argument.  ]^ow,  of  course,  the  conclusions 
reached  by  inductive  reasoning,  in  other  words  those  based 
on  inductive  arginncnt  or  evidence,  are  generalizations,  but 
inductive  arguments  themselves  are  not  generalizations 
necessarily,  or  even  usually.  Consider,  too,  what  it  means 
to  make  "arguments  based  on  a  causal  relationship"  a 
suhdivisioii  of  inductive  arguments.  I  have  not  the  space 
here  to  go  into  a  full  discussion  of  the  point — and  as  it 
is  fully  covered  by  treatises  on  logic  it  would  be  super- 
fluous to  do  so — but  it  may  be  said  sweepingly  that  in- 
ducti^•e  reasoning  is  absolutely  meaningless  except  as  based 
on  supposed  causal  relationships. 

The  failure  of  the  book  to  correlate  the  principles  of 
logic  with  those  of  brief-drawing  means  nothing  less  than 
that  the  scheme  of  brief-drawing  taught  is  given  no  sound 
logical  basis.  That  failure  is  illustrated  by  the  comparison 
of  a  passage  from  pages  91  and  92  about  "deductive 
argument"  with  one  of  the  "good  briefs"  presented  as 
models  in  the  later  chapter  on  brief-drawing.  The  teach- 
ing of  the  passage  and  the  practice  of  the  briefs  are  in- 
consistent. In  this  case  it  is  the  teaching  that  is  wrong, 
the  practice  being  right  though  its  logical  nature  is  al- 
together unexplained. 

Here  is  the  passage  from  pages  91  and  92.  Its  teach- 
ing is  that  deduction  is  used  but  little  in  most  arguments 
such  as  the  book  is  concerned  with. 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  7 

"The  Use  of  Deductive  Argument.  Deductive  argu- 
ment, depending  as  it  does  for  its  effectiveness  largely 
upon  the  assumption  that  its  fundamental  generalizations 
will  be  accepted  without  argument,  is  especially  service- 
able where  there  is  close  agreement  between  the  writer 
and  his  readers  in  regard  to  the  principles  underlying  the 
argument ;  a  philosopher  or  a  scientist  arguing  with  those 
of  the  same  school  of  thought,  a  la^\'yer  arguing  before  a 
bench  of  judges,  a  clergyman  trying  to  convince  others 
who  accept  his  fundamental  creed, — all  these  can  make 
free  use  of  deductive  reasoning  based  on  broad  principles 
accepted  by  their  audience.  But  in  cases  where  there  is 
Avide  divergence  in  views  the  safer  method  is  to  establish 
the  basal  generalizations  by  rapid  and  well-selected  in- 
ductive reasoning  from  significant  special  instances  and 
to  use  the  deductive  process,  if  at  all,  chiefly  to  summarize 
results." 

"Good  Brief,"  pp.  257-275,  omitting  the  introduction, 
the  conclusion,  and  the  arguments  supporting  those  num- 
bered with  arable  numerals: 

''Resolved:  That  the  Annexation  of  Canada  Jjy  Treaty 
with  Great  Britain  woidd  he  Economically  Advantageous 
to  the  United  States. 

Brief  Proper. 

"I.  From  an  economic  standpoint  Annexation  would  be 
advantageous,  for 

"A.  Our  present  tariff  makes  our  commercial  rela- ' 
tions  with  Canada  precarious,  for 

1.  The  tariff  in  itself  is  unfair. 

2.  Trade  figures  show  it  to  be  unfair. 

3.  The  Canadians  evidently  realize  this  unfairness. 


8  CLAEENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

4.  It  is  in  Canada's  power  to  equalize  these  tariff 
and  trade  conditions. 

"B.  Our  tariff  is  harmful  in  many  cases. 

1.  It  is  almost  prohibitive  on  many  articles  which 
are  really  needed  in  the  United  States. 

"C.  These  tariff  evils  would  be  removed  by  annexa- 
tion. 
1.  The  tariff  would  be  removed  altogether. 

^^D.  Thus,  with  tariff  removed,  our  home  trade  would 
increase  naturally. 

1.  Our  markets  would  have  the  preference  on  all 

Canadian  products. 

2.  We  should  get  all  of  Canada's  trade  now  coming 

under  the  head  of  imports  into  Canada. 

"E.  The  wealth  of  the  United  States  Avould  be  very 
materially  increased  by  annexation. 

1.  Developed    Canada    has    a    very    considerable 

wealth. 

2.  The  vast  undeveloped  natural  wealth  of  Canada, 

in  lumber,  minerals,  fertile  soil,  and  in  nat- 
ural waterways  for  transportation,  is  beyond 
even  the  possibility  of  doubt. 

3.  This   natural   wealth   Avould   be    developed   by 

our  capital  and  enterprise. 

''F.  As  far  as  the  export  trade  of  a  country  shows 
the  economic  wealth  we  should  not  lose  by  an- 
nexation. 

1.  Our  export  trade  would  be  increased. 

"G.  The  argument  that  aunexation,  by  opening  our 
markets  to  Canadian  competition,  would  hurt 
our  manufacturers  and  producers,  is  worthless. 


THE  LOGIC  OF  AKGUMENT.  » 

1.  Iron,  coalj  lumber,  fish  and  farm  products  are 

the  principal  products  of  Canada. 

2.  Canadian  iron  could  not  hurt  our  producers  or 

our  manufacturers. 

3.  Canadian  coal  could  not  injure  our  producers. 

4.  Canadian  lumber  cannot  hurt  our  producers. 

5.  The  argument  that  our  producers  would  be  un- 

able to  compete  against  Canadian  farm 
products  and  Canadian  fish  does  not  hold  in 
case  of  annexation. 

''H.  We  can  strengthen  our  argument  for  annexation 
by  comparing  annexation  Avith  Reciprocity 
and  Free  Trade. 

1.  Such  a  comparison  will  show  that  all  of  these 

methods  improve  trade  conditions  through  the 
tariff. 

2.  It   will  show  that   in   some  cases   any  one  of 

these  methods  would  prove  equally  effective. 

3.  It  will  show  that  our  export  trade  Avould  be 

increased  by  any  one  of  these  methods. 

4.  It  will  prove  that  only  annexation  would  make 

all  tariff  conditions  fair  to  both  countries. 

5.  It  will  prove  that  only  by  annexation  could  the 

vast  wealth  of  Canada  benefit  the  United 
States. 

6.  It  will  prove  that  all  the  advantages  of  either 

Reciprocity  or  Free  Trade  would  be  realized 
by  annexation." 

Now,  as  will  be  clearer  later  when  we  have  analyzed  the 
relation  of  deductive  arguments  to  the  conclusions  they 
support,  every  one  of  these  arguments  is  deductive.  And 
the  same  is  true  of  the  "good  briefs"  printed  as  models 
on  pages  272-285,  483-493  and  493-502.     In  short,  the 


10  CLAEENCE  GILBERT  IIOAG. 

briefs  generally  tliroiigliout  the  book  are  inconsistent  with 
the  passage  about  deductive  argument  on  pages  91  and  92. 

I  will  now  present  my  ow^n  view  of  the  logic  of  argu- 
ment. In  doing  so  I  must  repeat  some  of  the  most  element- 
ary principles  of  logic,  and  for  this  I  ask  the  reader's  in- 
dulgence. 

We  shall  discover  the  nature  of  argument  best,  perhaps, 
by  first  asking  how  it  is  that  we  come  to  hold  any  proposi- 
tion to  be  true  or  to  be  untrue.  If  we  find  out  by  what 
road  we  ourselves  arrive  at  a  conclusion,  we  shall  be  in 
the  way  of  learning  how  to  guide  the  minds  of  others  to  a 
conclusion,  that  is,  how  to  argue. 

How  do  we  come  to  believe  that  putting  frost-bitten 
fingers  into  warm  water  makes  them  ache  worse  ?  By  try- 
ing it  a  few  times:  what  we  find  to  be  true  a  few  times 
we  infer  to  be  true  always.  How  do  we  come  to  believe 
that  heating  water  over  a  hot  fire  Avill  cause  it  to  go  off 
into  the  air  as  water  vapor  ?  By  trying  it  a  few  times :  in 
this  case  also  what  we  find  to  be  true  a  few  times  we 
infer  to  be  true  always.  How  do  we  come  to  believe  that 
the  time  of  vibration  of  a  pendulum  varies  as  the  square 
root  of  the  length  ?  If  we  come  to  this  belief  through  ex- 
periments merely,  the  answer  is  the  same,  by  trying  it 
a  few  times.  These  examples  illustrate  one  of  the  ways 
by  Avhich  we  reach  conclusions :  what  in  actual  experience 
we  find  to  be  true  in  some  cases  w^e  infer  to  be  true  in  all 
cases  of  the  kind ;  our  conclusion  is  simply  an  assertion 
so  phrased  as  to  cover  not  only  the  observed  cases  but 
all  cases  Avhatever  of  the  kind.  The  act  of  jumping  to  such 
a  general  conclusion  from  some  of  the  facts  it  covers  is 
called  inductive  reasoning  or  induction. 

But  how,  supposing  we  have  never  tried  putting  frost- 
bitten fingers  into  warm  water,  can  we  come  to  the  con- 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  11 

elusion  that  putting  into  A\'arni  water  certain  fingers,  say 
those  of  a  boy  who  comes  into  the  house  with  fingers  ap- 
parently frost-bitten,  will  make  them  ache  worse  ?  Evi- 
dently not  by  the  process  of  reasoning  just  explained,  for 
whereas  by  that  we  inferred  a  generalization  from  some 
of  the  observed  facts  it  covers,  in  this  case  our  conclusion 
is  not  a  generalization  at  all,  and  the  one  fact  it  covers 
we  have  not  observed.  Yet  it  may  be  that  we  can  come  to 
the  conclusion  by  good  reasoning.  What  is  the  nature  of 
the  process  ?  One  of  the  grounds  of  our  inference  is  the 
fact — for  convenience  I  will  call  it  a  ''fact"  at  this  point, 
though  in  reality  it  is  itself  only  a  conclusion  reached  by 
such  reasoning  as  I  am  now  explaining — one  of  the  grounds 
of  our  inference,  I  say,  is  the  fact  that  the  particular 
fingers  in  question  are  frost-bitten  fingers.  The  other 
ground  of  inference  is  a  generalization  already  stored  up 
in  our  mind  and  now  suggested  or  brought  to  our  attention 
by  the  frost-bitten  fingers.  It  is  the  generalization.  Putting 
frost-bitten  fingers  into  ivarm  water  makes  them  ache 
worse — the  same  generalization,  it  happens,  that  was  the 
conclusion  of  the  induction  w^e  considered  first,  though 
in  the  present  case,  as  we  have  explicitly  supposed  no 
previous  experience  of  the  fact  it  covers,  not  the  result 
of  previous  induction.  Our  process  of  reasoning  here, 
you  see,  is  distinctly  different  from  that  explained  above 
as  induction :  it  consists  in  the  application  of  a  generaliza- 
tion to  a  case  or  another  generalization  which  it  covers. 
This  process  of  reasoning,  the  application  of  a  generaliza- 
tion to  a  case  or  another  generalization  which  it  covers, 
is  called  deductive  reasoning  or  deduction. 

The  grounds  of  induction  are  the  facts  showing  that 
the  conclusion,  the  generalization  covering  them,  is  true. 
The  grounds  of  deduction  are  reasons  why  the  conclusion 


12  CLARENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

should  he  expected  to  he  true.  The  generalization  applied 
may  be  itself  the  conclusion  of  an  induction,  as  we 
have  seen  the  very  generalization  in  this  case  might  have 
been,  or  it  may  not,  as  we  have  supposed  in  this  case. 

Induction  and  deduction  are  the  only  kinds  of  reasoning 
we  use  in  coming  to  any  conclusion.  Let  us  proceed,  then, 
with  our  examination  of  deduction,  and  then  inquire  into 
the  bearing  of  both  kinds  of  reasoning  on  argument. 

In  regard  to  deduction,  it  must  be  noted  that  to  express 
in  language  the  grounds  of  inference  for  such  reasoning 
two  assertions  are  required.  We  cannot  reasonably  con- 
clude that  putting  these  fingers  into  warm  water  will  7nahe 
them  ache  worse  unless  we  believe  not  only  the  generaliza- 
tion already  stored  away  in  our  mind  that  we  call  forth 
to  apply  to  the  case,  namely.  Putting  frost-bitten  fingers 
into  ivarm  water  makes  them  ache  worse,  but  also  the  fact, 
These  fingers  are  frost-hitten  fingers.  Now  the  assertion 
which  covers  the  generalization  we  aj^ply  in  deduction  is 
called  the  major  premise,  and  the  assertion  which  covers 
the  fact  coming  under  it  is  called  the  minor  premise. 

The  major  premise  may  take  any  one  of  several  forms 
in  language,  but  it  must  always  be  a  generalization  of 
some  sort.  The  minor  premise  must,  of  course,  conform  to 
the  major  so  as  to  make  unmistakably  clear  the  fact  that 
it  is  covered  by  it.  For  the  deductions  we  have  been  con- 
sidering here  are  several  forms  of  the  major,  together 
with  forms  of  the  minor  and  the  conclusion  to  correspond. 


Major:     Putting  frost-bitten  fingers  into  warm  water 
makes  them  ache  worse. 

Minor:     These  fingers  are  frost-bitten  fingers. 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  13 


Conclusion :    Putting  these  fingers  into  warm  water  will 


make  them  ache  worse. 


Major:  Frost-bitten  fingers  always  ache  worse  when 
put  into  warm  water. 

Minor:     These  fingers  are  frost-bitten  fingers. 

Conclusion:  These  fingers  will  ache  worse  when  put 
into  warm  water. 

3. 

Major:  Frost-bitten  fingers  ache  worse  if  put  into 
warm  water. 

Minor:     These  fingers  are  frost-bitten. 

Conclusion:  These  fingers  will  ache  worse  if  put  into 
warm  water. 

Of  these  groups  of  forms  some  are  more  simple  and 
natural,  others  more  labored.  Perhaps  the  most  simple 
and  natural  group  is  the  third,  that  with  the  if-clause. 
This  is  worth  noting,  for  this  if -form  is  just  as  sound 
logically  as  any  of  the  others,  and  on  account  of  its 
naturalness  it  is  in  many  cases  the  most  desirable  form 
rhetorically. 

Such  a  group  of  assertions,  the  two  premises  and  the 
conclusion  of  a  deduction,  is  called  by  logicians,  of  course, 
a  syllogism. 

Thus  far  we  have  been  considering  reasoning.  Let  us 
now  ask,  What  is  argument  ?  Argument  is  language  ex- 
pressing the  grounds  from  which  another  can  reason  to 
the  conclusion  upheld  by  the  person  arguing.  Now  we 
have  just  seen  what  are  the  only  grounds  from  which  any- 
body can  reason  to  any  conclusion.     They  are  either  the 


14  CLAEENCE    GILBEET    HOAG. 

facts  from  which  it  can  be  inferred,  that  is,  reasoned  to, 
indnctively  or  the  two  premises  from  which  it  can  be  in- 
ferred deductively.  Xo  language  is  argument  therefore, 
speaking  very  strictly,  that  does  not  express  either  such 
facts  or  such  premises. 

Consider  some  concrete  examples.  If  you  wanted  to 
persuade  me  that  in  general  putting  frost-bitten  fingers 
into  warm  water  makes  them  ache  worse,  you  would  per- 
haps say:  ''It  did  so  when  I  tried  it;  it  did  so  when  A 
tried  it;  it  did  so  when  B  tried  it."  That,  of  course,  is 
argument ;,  and  what  docs  it  consist  in  ?  Simply  in  the 
expression  in  language,  in  the  form  of  assertions,  of  the 
facts  of  which  the  conclusion  you  want  me  to  accept  is 
the  generalization.  It  is  called,  therefore,  of  course,  in- 
ductive argument. 

Perhaps,  however,  you  might  say:  ''The  doctor  Imows 
all  about  such  matters,  and  he  says  so."  That  is  argument 
too;  and  if  you  consider  it,  you  will  see  that  it  is  the  two 
premises  from  which  you  expect  me  to  reason  deductively 
to  the  same  conclusion.  This  becomes  clear  if  we  change 
the  wording  to  either  of  these  forms : 

If  the  doctor  says  that  putting  frost-bitten  fingers  into 
warm  water  makes  them  ache  worse,  it  does  nuike  them 
ache  worse  (major). 

The  doctor  says  that  putting  frost-bitten  fingers  into 
warm  water  makes  them  ache  worse  (minor). 

What  the  doctor  says  about  such  matters  is  true  (major). 
The  doctor  says  that  putting  frost-bitten  fingers   into 
warm  water  makes  them  ache  worse  (minor). 

If  one  tries  to  think  of  some  other  argument  for  this 
conclusion,  one  may  think  of  several  others  readily,  but 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  15 

they  will  all  prove  to  be  one  of  these  two  kinds,  that  is, 
the  facts  of  which  the  assertion  argued  for  is  the  generaliza- 
tion (inductive  argument)  or  the  premises  from  which 
it  is  the  conclusion  (deductive  argument).  As  there  are 
only  two  kinds  of  reasoning,  there  can  be  only  two  kinds 
of  argument. 

We  have  seen  that  every  argument  bears  one  of  three 
possible  relations  to  the  assertion  it  argues  for,  the  rela- 
tion of  facts  covered  by  a  generalization  to  the  generaliza- 
tion itself  (in  inductive  argument),  the  relation  of  major 
premise  to  conclusion  (in  deductive  argument),  and  the 
relation  of  minor  premise  to  conclusion  (in  deductive 
argument).  Of  these  relations  the  first  is  so  clear  as 
to  require  no  further  treatment.  The  second  and  third, 
however,  may  not  be ;  and  a  thorough  grasp  of  these  last 
two  relations  is  the  secret  of  a  mastery  of  the  logic  of 
argument. 

What,  then,  is  the  relation  between  a  major  and  a  minor 
premise  ?  And  what  is  the  relation  between  each  and  the 
conclusion  ? 

Suppose  the  conclusion,  the  assertion  to  be  argued  for, 
is  this:  Mr.  BooseveU  should  not  he  nominated  for  the 
Presidency  in  1908.  The  two  premises  chosen  as  argu- 
ments, let  us  say,  are  these :  Mr.  Roosevelt  has  served  two 
terms  already  and  Any  man  who  has  served  two  terms 
already  should  not  he  nominated  for  the  Presidency.  The 
relations  between  these  three  assertions,  from  the  point  of 
view  not  of  reasoning  but  of  arguing,  can  be  represented,  I 
think,  by  a  graphic  method  similar  to  that  by  which  the 
mathematician  Euler,  in  the  instruction  of  a  German 
princess  in  the  eighteenth  century,  represented  the  relations 
between  the  three  terms  of  a  syllogism.    The  three  circles  of 


16  CLARENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

Eiiler,  each  representing  one  of  the  three  terms,  will  be  re- 
membered by  everyone  who  has  studied  the  old  fashioned 
elementary  logic.  The  graphic  representation  of  the  rela- 
tions to  each  other  of  the  entire  propositions  is  equally 
simple.  Let  the  assertion  to  be  supported  be  represented 
by  the  ring  called  Conclusion  in  the  figure  below.  Let 
the  mind  of  the  person  to  be  convinced  of  the  truth  of 
the  assertion,  whom  for  convenience  I  shall  hereafter  call 
simjily  the  reader,  be  represented  by  the  circle  M.  The 
function  of  argument,  then,  the  work  it  is  to  do,  the  sup- 
porting of  the  assertion  in  the  mind  of  the  reader,  is  the 
linking  of  Conclusion  to  M.  j^ote  that  well,  for  it  is 
the  heart  of  the  whole  matter:  to  argue  is  to  link  Con- 
clusion to  M. 


Now,  if  you  will  look  back  to  the  two  premises,  you  will 
see  that  the  second  one  is  simply  language  expressing  that 
part  of  the  contents  of  the  reader's  mind  which  the  con- 
clusion can  be  United  to,  and  that  the  first  one  is  simply 
the  link.     Moreover,  the  second,  you  will  note,  is  the  major 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  lY 

premise ;  the  first,  the  minor.     The  complete  figure,  there- 
fore, is  this : 


HON 


This  figure  represents  all  possible  cases  of  single  pro- 
cesses of  deductive  argument.  To  represent  a  chain  of 
arguments  it  has  only  to  be  modified  as  I  shall  explain 
below.  The  process  in  all  deductive  arguments,  that  is, 
in  all  argimients  whatever  that  are  not  inductive,  is  es- 
sentially that  of  linking  the  conclusion  or  assertion 
supported  to  what  is  already  held  as  truth  in  the  mind  of 
the  reader.  Of  what  is  held  as  truth  in  that  mind,  the 
part  that  is  used  to  link  the  supported  assertion  to,  when 
expressed  in  language,  is  called  the  major  premise.  The 
link  is  called  the  minor  premise. 

This  graphic  mode  of  representing  deductive  argument 
reveals  some  interesting  points  concerning  it. 

Evidently  the  adaptation  of  a  deductive  argument  to 
the  reader's  mind  is  not  important  merely,  but  essential : 
if  the  link  fails  to  connect  the  conclusion  with  something 
in  his  mind,  it  does  no  supporting  whatever.  This  prin- 
ciple is  fundamental  for  all  arguing.  Whether  the  major 
premise  you  are  using  is  or  is  not  really  held  as  true  in 
your  own  mind  may  be  important,  but  only  in  respect  to 


18  CLAEENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

sincerity:  what  is  important  in  respect  to  the  performance 
of  its  work  by  the  argument  is  whether  the  major  you  are 
using  is  or  is  not  really  held  as  true  in  the  mind  of  the 
reader.  With  an  audience  of  Christians,  to  use  the  good 
examj^le  of  Professor  G.  P.  Baker,  it  is  useless  to  sup- 
port an  assertion  by  arguing  that  it  is  in  the  Koran, 
whereas  with  an  audience  of  Mohammedans  it  is  not. 
What  is  the  difference  from  the  point  of  view  of  my 
graphic  representation  of  argument  ?  It  is  this :  the  Chris- 
tian does  not  have  in  his  mind  the  ring,  so  to  speak, 
namely.  What  is  in  the  Koran  is  true,  to  which  you  are 
trying  to  link  the  conclusion;  the  Mohammedan  does  have 
it.  So  far  as  the  mere  effectiveness  of  the  argument  with 
the  audience  is  concerned,  it  makes  no  difference  what- 
ever whether  this  ring  is  in  the  arguer's  mind  or  not. 

Deductive  argument,  to  express  the  same  point  in  dif- 
ferent words,  is  argument  based  on  the  consistency  which 
must  rule  the  thinking  of  the  reader.     You  want  him  to 

believe,  for  example,  that  he  should  not  vote  for  B for 

Governor.  "What,"  you  ask  yourself,  "can  I  say  that 
he  will  believe  which  will  make  it  clear  to  him  that  what 
he  believes  already  requires  the  truth  of  my  proposition? 
He  believes  that  he  should  not  vote  for  anyone  for  Governor 

who  has  accej)ted  a  bribe.    If,  then,  I  can  say  that  B 

accepted  a  bribe  while  in  the  Legislature,  that  is,  if  I 
can  say  it  and  make  the  reader  believe  it,  consistency 
will  require  him  to  believe  the  original  proposition,  namely, 

that  he  should  not  vote  for  B for  Governor."     If,  to 

take  another  example,  the  proposition  is,  Chicago  should 
buy  and  operate  its  street  railways,  it  is  consistency,  if 
anything,  that  will  require  my  reader  to  accept  it  if  I 
can  say  and  make  him  believe  that  Municipal  ownership 
and  operation  of  the  street  railways  of  Chicago  will  result 
in  economic  benefit  to  the  people. 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  19 

This  graphic  mode  of  representing  deductive  argument 
makes  it  clear,  too,  that  the  minor  premise,  the  link,  is 
argument  in  a  sense  in  which  the  major  premise,  the 
generalization  linked  to,  the  ring,  is  not.  It  shows  that 
the  minor  premise  may  be  altogether  new  to  the  reader, 
whereas  the  major,  so  far  as  we  have  yet  seen,  serves  no 
purpose  if  it  be  not  already  part — whether  or  not  it  has 
ever  been  formulated  in  words — of  the  reader's  store  of 
accepted  generalizations.  And  in  this  the  graphic  repre- 
sentation accords  with  the  truth.  Thus  far,  for  the  sake 
of  explaining  only  one  thing  at  a  time,  I  have  assumed 
that  major  as  well  as  minor  is  actually  expressed  in  argu- 
ing deductively.  Three  times  out  of  four,  however,  the 
major  is  not  expressed.  The  reason  will  now  bo  clear. 
In  supporting  the  proposition,  The  city  Uioidd  ovm  its 
street  railways,  you  would  probably  not  say  at  all.  The 
city  should  own  its  street  railways  if  owning  them  will 
result  in  economic  benefit  to  tlie  people.  Your  economic 
argument  you  would  cover  by  the  minor  only,  Mumcipal 
ownership  ivill  result  in  economic  benefit  to  the  people :  you 
would  trust  that  the  major  above  would  do  its  work  (of 
serving  as  the  ring  for  the  conclusion  to  bo  linked  to) 
as  well  unexpressed  as  expressed.  A  syllogism  of  which 
only  the  conclusion  and  one  premise  are  expressed  is 
called  by  logicians,  of  course,  an  cnthymeme.  Most  of  the 
syllogisms  we  use  in  arguing,  then,  are  enthymemes,  and 
the  unexpressed  premise  is  usually  the  major. 

But  we  must  not  go  too  far:  we  must  not  say  that  to 
express  the  major  is  never  worth  while.  The  assertion 
to  be  supported,  is,  let  us  say.  You  should  not  vote  for 
Smith.  Your  minor  is,  Smitli  was  given  the  nomination 
by  Williams.  In  this  case  it  might  be  important  not  only 
to  express  the  major  but  even  to  euiphasize  and  to  support 
it.     Three  times  out  of  four  the  major  reed  not  be  ex- 


20 


CLAKENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 


pressed ;  the  fourth  time  it  needs  to  be  expressed  and  per- 
haps emphasized  and  supported. 

This  may  at  first  seem  inconsistent  with  the  conception 
of  the  major  represented  by  the  figure  above.  Kot  so,  how- 
ever: it  is  true  that  the  major  must  be  in  the  reader's  mind 
before  the  minor,  the  argument  par  excellence,  can  do  its 
work,  but  it  is  equally  true  that  the  major  may  be  put 
there  only  a  second  before  it  serves  its  purpose.  In  other 
words,  a  major  premise  may  be  established  in  the  reader's 
mind  in  order  to  be  used  a  moment  later  to  hang  a  con- 
clusion to  by  the  link  of  a  corresponding  minor.  In  such 
a  case  what  is  the  major  in  the  second  argument  is  the 
conclusion  in  the  first.  All  this  can  be  represented  graph- 
ically. It  is  not  until  3,  in  the  figure  below,  is  linked 
to  5,  so  that  it  is  logically  part  of  the  hearer's  mind, 
that  1  can  be  linked  to  3  by  2.  But  as  soon  as  3  is  linked 
to  5,  it  is  a  part  of  the  hearer's  beliefs,  that  is,  held  fast  to 
the  circle  M  and  ready  to  serve  as  the  ring  for  1  to  be 
linked  to.  The  words  to  the  right  of  the  figure  express 
the  meanings  of  the  several  parts  they  stand  opposite. 


(Mind  of  the  hearer.) 

You  should  uot  do  anything  that  tends 

to   perpetuate   the   power   of   a   bad 

"machine." 
A'oting  for  men  given  the  nomination 

by  Williams  tends  to  perpetuate  the 

power  of  a  bad  machine. 

You  should  not  vote  for  men  given  the 
nomination  by  Williams. 

Smith   was   given   the   nomination   by 
Williams. 

You  should  not  vote  for  Smith. 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  21 

In  regard  especially  to  supporting  the  major  one  further 
word  is  necessary.  Though  sometimes,  as  we  have  seen, 
a  writer  should  support  a  major  premise,  he  does  well  to  ask 
himself,  before  doing  so,  whether  it  is  not  possible  to  cut 
out  that  major  and  the  corresponding  minor  altogether  and 
link  the  conclusion  directly  to  some  generalization  already 
in  the  hearer's  mind,  closely  allied  to  that  to  which  the 
dropped  major  would  have  had  to  be  linked.  Why  hang 
a  thing  to  a  ring  that  must  itself  be  hung  to  the  ceiling 
if  you  can  as  well  hang  it  to  the  ceiling  directly  ?  If  the 
proposition  is,  The  city  should  own  Us  street  railways,  why 
say  as  an  argument  on  the  negative.  Municipal  ownership 
of  the  street  railways  ivould  he  socialistic?  The  major 
to  which  this  argument  would  link  the  proposition.  The 
city  should  not  do  anything  socialistic,  would  be  at  least  as 
hard  to  support  as  the  original  proposition — unless,  of 
course,  the  readers  were  blindly  antagonistic  to  socialism 
— and  supporting  it  would  mean  linking  it  to  the  veiy 
generalizations  already  in  the  hearer's  mind  to  which  the 
original  proposition  could  have  been  linked  directly. 

Considering  now  the  minor,  we  may  reasonably  ask 
whether  to  it  also  apply  these  principles  just  explained 
in  regard  to  the  major.  They  do  not:  well-chosen  minors 
that  support  directly  the  conclusion  of  an  argument,  that 
is,  those  I  define  below  as  "primary  arguments,"  nearly 
always  need  support.  The  minors  mentioned  in  the  last 
few  pages  above  will  serve  as  examples.  Municipal  own- 
ership and  operation  of  the  street  railways  of  Chicago 
will  result  in  economic  benefit  to  the  people:  unsupported 
itself,  that  argument  is  worthless ;  supported  successfully 
it  does  about  half  of  all  that  is  needed  to  convince  the 
hearer  of  the  truth  of  the  original  proposition.  Smith 
was  given  the  nomination  by  Williams:  if  we  suppose 


22  CLAEENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

the  major  that  corresponds  to  it  established,  that  argument 
is  strong  provided  it  is  itself  believed;  not  believed,  it  is 
of  course  worthless. 

One  of  the  commonest  faults  in  arguing  is  failure  to 
support  duly  minor  premises  that  would  go  far  towards  es- 
tablishing a  proposition  if  themselves  accoj)tcd  but  that 
are  not  likely  to  be  accepted  unless  supported  with  the 
utmost  thoroughness  and  skill.  If  a  minor  will  do  little 
or  no  good  if  believed,  it  should  be  thro\vn  out  altogether 
and  the  space  devoted  to  arguments  that  will  do  good.  If 
it  will  do  good  if  believed,  it  should  be  thoroughly  estab- 
lished in  the  reader's  mind  even  at  the  cost  of  consider- 
able space.  Propositions  are  not  established  by  the  number 
of  arguments  which  directly  support  the  proposition  but 
by  two  or  three  arguments  that  settle  the  question  if  sup- 
ported successfully  and  that  are  supporttnl  successfully. 
Often  a  writer  should  spend  half  his  space  or  more  in 
establishing  a  single  minor. 

How  much  support  a  minor  needs  and  what  will  support 
it,  those  clearly  are  questions  quite  distinct  from  the  ques- 
tion how  much  support  a  minor,  if  believed  itself,  will 
give  the  original  proposition.  They  should  be  considered, 
therefore,  separatel,y.  It  is  largely  because  it  makes  these 
questions  distinct  in  the  writer's  mind  and  leads  to  his 
considering  them  separately  that  a  mastery  of  the  logic 
of  argument  is  important. 

How  are  minors  supported?  Exactly  as  original  pro- 
positions are  supported.  And  what  if  these  supporting 
arguments  need  support  themselves?  Thtrn  they  should 
be  given  support  until  they  need  it  no  more.  And  so  the 
process  should  go  on  until  the  arguments  needed  to  es- 
tablish the  proposition  are  themselves  established  firmly. 
Whether  or  not  any  specific  argument  will  be  accepted 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  23 

without  support  can  be  decided,  of  course,  by  no  rules 
but  only  by  the  common  sense  of  the  writer. 

The  arguments  that  support  the  original  proposition 
directly  are  no  more  important  logically  than  their  own 
supporters  or  than  the  supporters  of  their  own  supporters 
down  to  the  last  arguments  used.  Yet,  because  they  de- 
termine the  division  of  the  matter  of  the  whole  discourse, 
as  will  be  explained,  they  are  often  called  the  "principal" 
arguments.  For  convenience  I  shall  call  them  the  primary 
arguments ;  those  that  support  them,  the  secondary  argu- 
ments ;  those  that  support  the  secondary,  the  tertiary  argu- 
ments, etc.  Two  or  more  arguments  of  the  same  one  of 
these  orders,  that  is,  two  or  more  primary  or  two  or  more 
secondary  arguments,  I  shall  call,  in  respect  to  their  rela- 
tion to  each  other,  co-ordinate. 

When  we  thus  support  a  primary  argument,  we  are 
making  what  may  be  called  a  chain  of  argument.  Such 
chains  fonn  the  logical  skeletons — to  mix  metaphors — of 
all  extended  arguments. 

A  chain  of  arguments  of  the  less  common  sort  in  whic-h 
a  major  is  supported  was  represented  graphically  on  page 
20.  One  of  the  common  sort,  in  which  only  minors  are 
expressed,  is  represented  in  this  figure : 


24  CLARENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

1  is  the  proposition.     You  should  not  vote  for  B 

for  Governor. 

2  is  the  first  minor,  the  last  link  used  by  the  reader 
in  reasoning  to  the  proposition.    It  links  1  to  3.    It  would 

be  expressed  in  the  argument.     B accepted  a  bribe 

ivhile  in  the  Legislature. 

3  is  the  major  to  which  2  links  1.  It  would  not  be 
expressed  in  the  argument.  You  should  not  vote  for  any- 
body who  has  accepted  a  bribe. 

4  is  the  minor  linking  2,  which  is  found  to  need  sup- 
port,  to  5.     L says  he  saw  B accept  a  bribe 

while  in  the  Legislature. 

5  is  the  major  to  which  4  links  2.     It  would  probably 

not  be  expressed  in  the  argument.     What  L says  he 

saw,  he  saw. 

6  is  the  minor  linking  4,  which  is  found  to  need  support, 

to  1.     The  Daily  Herald  cjuotes  L as  saying  in  a 

speech  last  iveelc  that  he  saw  B accept  a  bribe,  etc. 

7  is  the  major  to  which  6  links  4.  It  would  probably 
not  be  expressed  in  the  argument.  What  the  Daily  Herald 
quotes  L as  saying,  he  said. 

The  common  use  of  the  words  ''a  perfect  chain  of  reason- 
ing" suggests  the  idea  that  in  a  perfectly  constructed  argu- 
ment there  is  but  one  such  chain.  Usually,  however,  there 
are  several.  If  it  is  possible  to  link  the  original  proposi- 
tion to  the  hearer's  mind  directly  by  two  or  more  argu- 
ments, it  is  best  to  do  so;  and,  of  course,  each  such  argu- 
ment connecting  the  proposition  directly  v/ith  the  hearer's 
mind  starts  a  separate  chain.  Could  the  proposition  sup- 
ported by  the  chain  in  the  figure  above  be  supported  thus 
directly  by  another  minor  besides  2  ?  Doubtless  it  could. 
If  the  issue  covered  by  the  question  were  that  made  by 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  25 

the  rise  of  the  better  citizens  in  a  reform  movement  to  put 
down  a  corrupt  "machine,"  a  good  argument  connecting 
1  directly  with  the  hearer's  mind  would,  perhaps,  be  this: 

Voting  for  B tends  to  strengthen  the  "machine."  That 

argument  is  evidently  coordinate  with  2  and  starts  a 
second  chain. 

Experience  shows  that  the  number  of  separate  chains 
of  arguments,  in  support  of  such  propositions  as  are  sub- 
jects of  public  discussion,  is  seldom  more  than  three  or 
four  and  seldom  fewer  than  two.  Should  Chicago  huy , 
and  operate  her  street  railways?  What  principles  or  gen- 
eralizations will  cover  that  case  ?  Analysis  reveals  a  gen- 
eralization in  regard  to  economy  that  covers  it:  Whatever 
ivill  result  in  economic  benefit  to  the  people  should  he  done. 
Analysis  reveals,  too,  a  generalization  in  regard  to  politics 
that  covers  it :  Whatever  ivill  tend  to  strengthen  the  cause 
of  good  government  should  he  done.  Perhaps  you  can 
think  of  one  other  generalization  that  can  be  shown  to 
cover  the  proposition ;  possibly  you  can  think  of  two  others ; 
but  to  more  than  three  or  four  in  all  you  evidently  cannot 
reasonably  connect  the  proposition  directly.  More  than 
three  or  four  chains  of  arguments,  accordingly,  you  cannot 
reasonably  make.  When  a  writer  supports  his  proposition 
directly  by  as  many  as  eight  or  ten  arguments,  he  does 
so  simply  because  he  fails  to  discard  weak  or  trivial  argu- 
ments and  fails  to  distinguish  between  arguments  that 
should  be  made  "primary"  and  those  that  should  be  made 
"secondary,"  in  other  words,  between  those  that  should 
be  made  to  support  the  conclusion  directly  and  those  that 
should  support  the  supporters. 

There  is  an  interesting  point  to  be  noticed  in  regard 
to  two  or  more  coordinate  arguments  which  support  a 
single  argument.     The  moment  you  put  one  of  them,  in 


26  CLARENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

almost  any  case,  into  syllogistic  form,  you  notice  that 
the  major  premise  is  not  true  independently  of  the  other 
coordinate  majors.  Consider  an  example.  The  conclusion, 
let  us  suppose,  is  this,  Chicago  should  buy  and  operate  her 
street  railways.  One  argument  to  be  used  is  this,  Munici- 
pal  ownership  and  operation  of  the  railways  will  result  in 
economic  benefit  to  the  people  of  Chicago.  ]^ow  the  major 
to  which  that  argument  links  the  conclusion,  though  surely 
held  to  be  true,  in  a  sense,  by  almost  all  readers,  is  not  held 
true  without  reservation.  The  major  in  question,  is, 
of  course,  this :  Whatever  tuill  result  in  economic  benefit 
to  the  people  of  Chicago  should  be  done.  Xow^  that  is 
obviously  true,  of  course,  but  only  with  the  reservation 
which  we  sometimes  cover  by  the  Avords  "other  things  being 
equal:"  that  a  thing  is  economically  beneficial  is  a  reason 
accejDted  almost  universally  for  doing  it,  but  only  in  the 
absence  of  counterbalancing  objections.  To  steal  may. 
sometimes  seem  to  a  man  beneficial  economically,  but  he 
does  not  necessarily  conclude  to  steal :  he  may  be  inhibited 
by  a  still  stronger  argument  on  the  other  side. 

This  interdependence  of  coordinate  premises  supporting 
the  same  proposition  should  be  covered  by  our  analysis 
of  the  logical  structure  of  argument.  What  is,  then,  the 
principle  that  covers  it,  and  how  can  it  be  represented 
graphically  in  our  diagram?  A  little  thought  reveals  the 
fact  that  rigid  logic  would  require  all  coordinate  majors 
supporting  the  same  proposition  to  be  combined  into  a 
compound  major  to  each  of  the  several  parts  of  which  a 
minor  would  correspond  and  link  the  proposition  to  be 
supported.  To  illustrate  this  we  may  suppose  that  the 
proposition  is  this,  Life  imprisonment  should  be  sub- 
stituted for  capital  punishment  in  Pennsylvania.  The 
minors  supporting  it  are,  let  us  say,  these:  the  first,  Life 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  27 

imprisonment  is  more  effective  than  capital  jjunislunent 
as  a  preventive  of  murder;  the  second,  Life  imprisonment 
is  more  humane  than  capital  punishment ;  the  third,  Life 
imprisonment  is  less  lihely  than  capital  punishment  to 
result  in  injustice  that  cannot  be  remedied.  ITow,  as  we 
have  seeu,  readers  cannot  be  expected  to  hold  true,  sweep- 
ingly,  without  regard  to  any  other  considerations  whatever, 
the  major  which  must  be  held  true  by  them  if  the  first 
of  these  arguments  is  to  be  of  any  service,  namely.  Any 
punishment  that  is  more  effective  as  a  preventive  of 
murder  than  capital  punishynent  should  he  substituted  for 
capital  punishment  in  Pennsylvania:  one  might  grant,  for 
example,  that  life-long  torture  would  l)e  niore  effective  as 
a  preventive  without  granting  that  it  should  be  substituted 
for  capital  punishment.  It  is  only  if  the  punishment 
proposed  is  granted  also  to  be  at  least  as  satisfactory  in 
all  other  essential  respects  that  the  argument  in  question, 
the  first  minor  above,  is  valid.  And  the  same  is  equally 
true  of  the  second  and  the  third  minors  above.  In  other 
words,  not  one  of  the  three  majors  to  which  these  three 
arguments  link  the  proposition  is  accepted  independently 
of  the  other  considerations.  If,  however,  we  combine  the 
majors  into  one  compound  major,  we  have  sound  logic. 
The  compound  major  might  read :  Any  punishment  that 
is  more  effective  as  a  preventive  of  murder  than  capital 
punishment,  more  humane,  and  less  likely  to  residt  in 
injustice  that  cannot  be  remedied,  shoidd  be  substituted 
for  capital  punishment  in  Pennsylvania;  or  it  might  read, 
more  effective  as  a  preventive,  as  humane,  and  not  more 
likely,  etc. ;  or  it  might  read  in  any  other  such  way  that 
would  suit  the  facts  and  make  the  combination  of  argu- 
ments used  really  conclusive. 


28  CLAEENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

Pursuing  this  line  of  thought  farther,  it  becomes  clear 
that  the  number  of  parts  required  by  rigid  logic  in  each 
such  compound  major  would  be  indefinitely  large,  for  all 
things  in  the  universe  are  bound  together  and  interrelated 
with  all  other  things.  Before  so  appalling  a  requirement 
of  rigid  logic,  however,  we  may  well  recoil  and  fall  all 
the  way  back  to  common  sense :  we  may  suppose  the  words 
"other  things  being  equal"  to  be  always  understood  and 
not  compound  our  majors  at  all  unless  the  case  seems 
especially  to  require  it,  as  it  would  in  the  support  of  the 
proposition  about  life  imprisonment,  and  as,  indeed,  it 
often  does. 

To  represent  the  compounding  of  majors  graphically  is 
easy:  all  that  is  necessary  is  to  elongate  the  loop  that 
stands  for  the  major  and  to  link  to  it  every  minor  that 
corresponds  to  one  of  its  parts. 

If  we  now  change  the  first  of  the  three  arguments  above 
on  the  life  imprisonment  question  to  a  form  which  it 
might  just  as  reasonably  have  assumed,  namely,  Life  im- 
prisomnent  is  as  effective,  etc.,  or  not  less  effective,  etc., 
we  have  an  example  of  a  rebuttal  argument,  that  is,  an 
argument  of  negative  rather  than  positive  service.  Such 
a  rebuttal  argument  must  be  worked  into  our  logical 
scheme.  Evidently  such  a  rebuttal  argument  is  merely 
one  whose  absolute  dependence  upon  other  coordinate  argu- 
ments is  obvious.  So  a  rebuttal  argument  not  only  may 
but  must  appear  in  a  graphic  representation  of  the  logic 
of  argument  as  linking  what  it  supports  to  a  compound 
major.  In  the  figure  below  I  is  the  rebuttal  argument; 
it  is  shown  as  linking  the  proposition  it  supports  to  a 
compound  major  to  which  II,  an  argument  coordinate 
with  I,  links  to  the  same  proposition. 


THE  LOGIC  OE  ARGUMEISTT. 


29 


■^^^p  tKe  ACAjeR 

ef  CKccaoo  wOt.(.>   not    b«  a>eyA('(\*'*'''Ai.  Ttothe  pi/PLic    poLiri 
tc^Lty    Ant   wowLi    be   Bc^eplii^c  To  T^«ft\e<!^iyoM»«Atcy.  (r 


^I. 


\\w/«ici- 


IVOU  <  *       NOT 

to 
poLitcCALLy 


Sk«u(d    be 


AJofT 


■y 


fir.  f^*"^'"^ 

I  PAL  oiweMt'pl 

-tft. 


\ecONoM<CAt.ly.| 


Jl^ 


«ronrten  XS  be  *a^ipiALS:^  •  » 

sk«w(d    be  Asofte^. 

I  must  now  consider  a  point  on  which  the  acute  reader 
has  perhaps  for  some  time  been  wanting  to  raise  an  ob- 
jection. I  have  apparently  wholly  accounted  for  the  logical 
structure  of  argument  without  bringing  in  inductive  argu- 
ments at  all.  Surely  inductive  arguments  must  play  a 
part.  They  do  indeed  usually  play  a  part,  often  by  far 
the  most  important  part  so  far  as  weight  of  evidence  is 
concerned ;  and  yet  in  respect  to  the  mere  structure  of 
the  discourse,  which  is  what  we  have  been  considering, 
their  part  in  arguments  on  subjects  of  public  discussion 
and  academic  debate  is  nearly  always  secondary  to  that 
played  by  deductive  arguments.^ 

Structurally  the  whole  argument  is  dominated  by  the 
arguments  that  stand  logically  next  to  the  original  prop- 

•Compare  here  the  view  of  Baker  and  Huntington  expressecl 
on  pages  91  and  02  of  their  Principles  of  Argumentation.  I  have 
quoted  the  passage  above,  pages  G  and  7. 


30  CLAKENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

ositiou,  that  is,  those  we  have  called  arbitrarily  the 
"primary."  arguments,  such  as  I  and  II  on  page  33 : 
for  it  is  on  the  basis  of  these  arguments  that  the  first 
division  of  the  matter  is  made.  And  these  primary  argu- 
ments must  be  deductive  in  the  case  of,  literally,  quite 
ninety-nine  of  every  hundred  subjects  of  public  discussion 
or  of  academic  debate.  It  is  not  hard  to  understand  why : 
ninety-nine  of  every  hundred  such  subjects  are  proposi- 
tions involving  the  idea  of  what  is  desirable,  what  is  good, 
what  should  be,  and,  as  a  minute's  thought  must  make 
clear,  the  last  step  in  reasoning  to  such  conclusions,  and 
therefore  the  first  step  in  arguing  for  them,  must  be  de- 
ductive. Take  as  an  example.  Life  imprisonment  should 
not  he  substituted  for  capital  punishment — note  the  word 
should.  Can  that  proposition  be  supported  directly  by 
induction,  that  is,  by  the  facts  of  which  it  is  the  generaliza- 
tion ?  Certainly  not,  for  it  is  not  the  generalization  of 
facts  at  all.  The  only  arguments  that  can  conceivably  be 
given  for  it  are  links  connecting  it  with  generalizations 
in  the  mind  which  themselves  include  the  should  he  idea, 
the  idea  of  what  is  desirable  or  good  or  right ;  and  of 
course  all  such  links  are  deductive  arguments.  In  ninety- 
nine  arguments  out  of  a  hundred,  then,  of  the  class  we  are 
considering,  it  is  only  after  the  primary  arguments  have 
divided  the  material  that  inductive  arguments  may  appear. 
And  even  then,  though  often  they  are  by  no  means  less 
important  than  deductive  arguments,  they  are  in  most 
debates  less  frequent.  In  nearly  every  discourse,  on  a 
question  of  public  discussion,  therefore,  the  arguments 
that  determine  the  main  structural  lines  and  most  of  those 
that  determine  subordinate  structural  lines  are  deductive. 
Only  in  the  field  of  experimental  natural  science  are  the 
main  structural  lines  of  discourses  often  determined  by 
inductive  arguments. 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  31 

Nearly  all  the  kinds  of  argument  or  evidence  commonly 
designated  by  special  names,  such  as  "argument  from 
authority,"  "direct  testimony,"  "expert  testimony,"  "argu- 
ment from  sign,"  and  "argument  from  example,"  are  de- 
ductive, but  they  are  not  explicitly  classed  as  such  in  the 
current  text-books.  Apparently,  indeed,  their  logical 
nature  has  actually  not  been  fully  thought  out  by  the 
writers  of  these  books.  Professor  Alden,  for  example,  in 
his  Art  of  Dehate,^  makes  "processes  of  reasoning"  a 
"class  of  proof"  coordinate  with  the  "te'^^timony  of  wit- 
nesses" and  with  "expert  testimony  and  authority."  And 
Professors  Baker  and  Huntington,  in  their  Principles  of 
Argumentation,  though  they  give  much  space  to  certain 
kinds  of  deductive  arguments  under  these  special  names, 
dismiss  deductive  argument  with  the  passage  I  have  quoted 
above  from  pages  91  and  92  of  their  book,  which  sug- 
gests no  relation  between  it  and  the  kind'?  of  evidence  to 
which  they  give  the  special  names.  Yet  the  logic  of  these 
kinds  of  evidence  or  argument  is  clear.  In  "argument 
from  authority,"  for  instance,  the  assertion  that  the  author- 
itative person  or  book  says  so-and-so  is  a  minor  premise, 
and  the  major  to  which  it  links  the  conclusion  is  the  as- 
sertion that  whatever  that  authority  says  on  the  subject 
is  true.  In  the  cases  of  the  other  kinds  of  evidence,  de- 
ductive logic  is  involved  just  as  obviously.  For  our  present 
purpose  it  is  therefore  unnecessary  to  illustrate  every  one 
of  these  specially  named  arguments  in  syllogistic  form. 

Inductive  arguments  we  use  whenever  we  can,  and  that 
means  whenever  the  assertion  needing  support  is  a  gen- 
eralization the  particulars  covered  by  which  can  be  adduced 
satisfactorily.     Suppose  the  proposition  is.  Life  imiyrison- 

^Plenry  Holt  &  Co.,  1900. 


32  CLARENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

merit  should  not  he  substituted  for  capital  punishment. 
The  arguments  supporting  that  proposition  immediately 
must    of    course    be    deductive    because    the    proposition 
is   not   a   generalization   of  facts   at   all.     One   of  them 
will    be,    say,    Life    imprisonment    is    less    effective    as 
a  preventive  of  ciime  than  capital  punishment.    This  argu- 
ment is  good  if  it  is  accepted  as  true  itself,  for  there  is 
a  ring  (major)  it  can  link  to,  namely,  Any  penalty  less 
effective  as  a  preventive  of  crime  than  capital  punishment 
should  not  he  suhstituted  for  capital  imnishment;  but  it 
needs  to  be  supported  itself.     Can  it  be  supported  in- 
ductively?   Yes.     In  what  does  the  inductive  argument 
consist?    In  the  facts  called  statistics  of  Avhich  it  is  the 
generalization.      Can   it   be   supported   also   deductively? 
Yes.     In  what  does  the  deductive  argument  consist?    In 
these  assertions :  Any  punishment  less  feared  than  capital 
punishment  is  less  effective  as  a  prevenMve  of  crime  than 
capital  punishment   (the  major  or  ring),   and  Life  im- 
prisonment is  less  feared  than  capital  punishment   (the 
minor  or  link).     Of  these  two  assertions  the  first  wiU 
surely  be  held  tnie  without  even  being  mentioned  and 
therefore  the  second  will  be  a  good  argument  if  only  it 
is  itself  accepted.     It  needs,  perhaps,  some  support.     Can 
it  be  supported  inductively?    Yes.     Can  it  be  supported 
deductively?    Yes,  conceivably,  but  it  can  be  supported 
best  inductively. — These  cases  are  typical  of  the  part  in- 
duction sometimes  plays  in  argument. 

To  get  a  clearer  view  of  all  these  logical  relations  let 
us  set  down  the  original  proposition  with  the  arguments 
under  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  represent  logical  coordina- 
tion and  subordination.  Let  the  primary  arguments,  those 
that  support  the  original  proposition  directly,  be  desig- 
nated I,  II,  etc.,  and  let  them  stand  under  each  other. 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  33 

Let  the  secondary  argiimciits,  those  that  support  T,  IT, 
etc.,  be  designated  1,  2,  3,  etc.,  and  let  them  stand  under 
each  other  but  farther  indented  than  I,  II,  and  III.  Let 
the  tertiary  arguments,  those  that  sui)port  1,  2,  3,  etc., 
be  designated  a,  b,  c,  etc.,  and  let  them  stand  under  each 
other  but  indented  farther  still.  Give  a  major  and  a 
minor  that  work  together  the  same  designation  followed 
by  the  word  major  or  the  word  minor. 

Proposition:  Life  imprisonment  should  not  he  sub- 
stituted for  capital  punishment, 

I  (major)  Any  punishment  less  effective  as  a  preven- 
tive of  crime  than  capital  punishment  should  not  he  suh- 
stituted  for  it. 

I  (minor)  Life  imprisonment  is  less  effective  as  a 
preventive  of  crime  than  capital  punishmemt. 

1  (major)  Any  punishment  less  feared  than  capital 
punishment  is  less  effective  as  a  preventive  of 
crime  than  capital  punishment. 

1  (minor)     Life  imprisonment  is  less  feared  than 

capital  punishment. 
(a)   It  is  less  feared  hy  Smith. 

It  is  less  feared  hy  Jones,  etc.,  etc. 

2  Life  imprisonment  has  heen  less  effective  in  Mas- 

sachusetts (in  the  form  of  statistics). 

Life  imprisonment  has  heen  less  effective  in  Penn- 
sylvania (in  the  form  of  statistics). 

Etc.,  etc. 

II  (major).  Any  punishment  less  humane  than  capi- 
tal punishment  should  not  he  suhstituted  for  it. 

II  (minor)  Life  imprisonment  is  less  humane  than 
capita  I  pun  ishm  en  t. 


34  CLAEENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

Here  the  original  proposition  is  supported  deductively 
by  the  linking  of  it  by  "I  (minor)"  to  "I  (major)."  Then 
''I  (minor)"  is  supported  deductively  by  the  linking  of 
it  by  "1  (minor)"  to  "1  (major)"  and  also  inductively 
by  the  assertions  under  "2."  Finally  "1  (minor)"  is 
supported  inductively  by  the  assertions  under  "(a)." 

The  wide-spread  prejudice  that  inductive  reasoning, 
and  consequently  inductive  argument,  is  more  valid  than 
deductive  is  due  to  an  imperfect  understanding  of  the  basis 
of  logic.  Keally,  of  course,  at  least  if  we  except  from  con- 
sideration deduction  based  on  generalizations  concerning 
what  is  desirable,  what  should  be,  in  other  words,  deduc- 
tion of  which  the  major  premise  is  in  the  ethical  instead 
of  the  material  world, — if,  I  say,  we  except  these  cases  of 
deduction  as  involving  problems  of  philosophy  which  can- 
not be  treated  here,  the  two  kinds  of  reasoning  rest  on  the 
same  basis,  that  is,  the  constancy  of  what  wo  call  the  '"laws 
of  nature."  I  have  as  good  grounds  for  the  conclusion, 
reached  by  deduction,  that  a  particular  stone  left  unsup- 
ported will  fall,  as  for  the  conclusion,  reached  by  induction, 
that  all  stones  left  unsupported  fall  and  will  fall;  and  I 
have  no  better.  Both  conclusions  rest  ultimately  on  my 
faith  that  the  "laws  of  nature,"  this  is,  the  concurrence 
or  succession  of  events  noted  as  constant  in  the  past, 
will  remain  constant  in  the  future.  Leaving  out  of 
consideration  the  cases  I  have  spoken  of,  induction  is 
simply  making,  on  the  basis  of  observation  of  natural 
phenomena,  a  generalization  covering  the  concurrence  or 
succession  of  natural  ]^henomena  in  the  future  as  well  as 
the  past;  deduction  is  applying  a  generalization  to  any 
case  covered  by  it. 

And  not  only  are  inductive  and  deductive  arguments 
exactly  equal  in  their  strength :  they  are  also  exactly  equal 


THE  LOGIC  OF  ARGUMENT.  35 

in  their  weakness.  Though,  as  methods  of  reasoning,  both 
are  perfect  in  their  validity  so  long  as  nature  remains  con- 
stant and  therefore  makes  any  reasoning  valid  at  all, 
yet  both  are  limited  by  the  degree  of  constancy  in  the  ob- 
served concurrences  and  successions  of  events  in  the  several 
fields  of  nature,  so  to  speak,  in  which  we  attempt  to  apply 
them.  Since  it  is  possible  to  distinguish  in  parts  of  the 
field  of  physics,  for  instance,  concurrences  and  succes- 
sions of  phenomena  so  constant  as  to  be  called  by  us  laws 
of  nature,  it  is  possible  there  to  make  generalizations  or 
to  predict  according  to  them,  that  is,  to  reason  either  in- 
ductively or  deductively,  with  what  we  may  call  almost 
absolute  validity.  But  in  fields  like  politics,  economics, 
and  sociology,  in  which  most  of  our  arguments  on  ques- 
tions of  public  discussion  and  academic  debate  lie,  we 
cannot  distinguish  concurrences  and  successions  of  such 
constancy,  and  therefore  we  cannot  reason  or  argue  either 
inductively  or  deductively  with  the  same  degree  of  validity. 
Usually,  it  is  true,  to  take  a  typical  example,  men  ''buy 
in  the  cheapest  market  available,"  but  they  do  not  do  so 
always.  Hence  our  reasoning  to  that  generalization  from 
the  facts  it  covers  (induction)  is  reasoning  to  a  tendency 
only,  and  our  reasoning  from  that  generalization  to  a  case 
under  it  (deduction)  is  reasoning  to  a  probability  only. 

Since  usually  in  our  arguments  Ave  are  thus  dealing  with 
tendencies  or  probabilities  instead  of  "laws,"  anything  like 
absolute  proof  is  usually  out  of  the  question.  It  is  only 
the  beginner,  for  example  the  inexperienced  academic 
debater,  who  supposes  that  not  to  accept  what  he  has 
"proved"  is  a  sign  of  the  hearer's  insanity  or  stupidity'; 
and  it  is,  indeed,  only  the  beginner  who  habitually  uses 
such  strong  words  as  "proved"  and  "proof"  in  regard  to 
the  support  of  propositions  that  are  subjects  of  public  dis- 


36  CLARENCE  GILBERT  HOAG. 

cussion.  It  is  absurd  to  speak  of  "proving"  that  life 
imprisonment  should  be  substituted  for  capital  punishment 
or  of  "proving''  that  the  tariff  should  be  revised. 

This  misconception  of  the  validity  of  logic  is  as  fatal 
to  good  argument  as  sheer  ignorance  of  logic.  The  writer 
who  is  ignorant  of  the  logic  of  argument  may  fail,  to  be 
sure,  to  construct  his  discourse  so  that  the  bearing  of  each 
argument  on  every  other  arg-ument  and  on  the  original 
proposition  wnll  be  clear.  But  the  ^^^■iter  who  miscon- 
peives  the  validity  of  his  logic,  failing  to  realize  that  lie 
is  dealing  throughout  only  with  tendencies  and  probabili- 
ties, will  fail  to  use  all  lavailable  means  of  making  the 
tendencies  seem  as  strong  as  possible  and  the  probabilities 
as  great  as  possible.  The  discourse  of  the  former  will 
lack  logical  structure ;  that  of  the  latter  will  lack  some- 
thing not  less  necessary.  What  the  latter  lacks,  however, 
should  be  discussed  not  under  the  present  title  but  under 
that  of  the  Rhetoric  of  Argument. 


ON  MILTON'S  KNOWLEDGE  OF  MUSIC 


By  Siqmund  Gottfried  Spaeth,  A.M. 


214621 


ON  MILTON'S  KNOWLEDGE  OF  MUSIC. 

Even  a  casual  reading  of  Milton's  works,  l)otli  poetical 
and  prose,  brings  to  light  the  fact  that  that  extraordinary 
genius  possessed,  as  a  part  of  his  great  fund  of  general  in- 
formation, a  most  detailed  and  technical  knowledge  of 
music, — a  knowledge  which,  in  his  case,  inspired  a  rever- 
ence for  the  art  and  an  idealization  of  its  mystic  sub- 
limity which  no  other  poet,  before  or  since,  has  exhibited. 

The  many  editors  of  Milton's  works  have  commented 
largely  upon  this  very  evident  musical  appreciation,  yet 
their  explanations  and  interpretations  of  particular  pas- 
sages have  been  sui'prisingly  at  variance  with  one  another, 
and  have  all  sho^vn  a  tendency  toward  seeking  a  general 
or  lallegorical  rather  than  a  particular,  concrete  meaning. 
The  fact  remains,  also,  that  many  of  Milton's  musical  ref- 
erences, occun'ing  lie  re  and  there  with  no  very  evident  con- 
nection, have  either  been  very  much  slighted  or  else  entirely 
overlooked.  In  view  of  this  surprising  neglect,  therefore, 
the  selection,  classification  and  separate  dissection  of  the 
musical  terms  in  Milton  furnish  a  most  interesting  study. 
The  limits  of  the  present  article,  however,  necessarily  con- 
fine the  treatment  of  the  subject  to  a  few  scattered  notes 
embodying  a  discussion  of  the  most  important  allusions. 
Some  of  the  points  mentioned  will  naturally  be  rather  ob- 
vious, but  so  far  asi  possible  these  will  be  dismissed  with  a 
mere  passing  reference. 

It  is  not  a  very  difficult  matter  to  find  natural  causes 
for  Milton's  musical  taste.  Aside  from  the  spirit  of  the 
age,  which  was  a  distinctly  musical  one,  we  must  take  into 

(39) 


40  SIGMUND  GOTTFRIED  SPAETH. 

account  the  great  influences  of  heredity  and  personal  en- 
vironment. The  statement  that  the  spirit  of  the  age  was 
"distinctly  musical"  may  well  be  questioned  by  some  who 
have  in  mind  only  the  closing  of  the  theatres,  the  war  upon 
street  minstrels,  and  the  fanatical  attacks  of  certain  mis- 
guided Puritans  upon  the  implements  and  accessories  of 
church  service.  It  must  be  remembered,  however,  that 
these  acts  by  no  means  represented  the  "spirit  of  the  time." 
Statistics  show  that  there  wasi  an  uninterrupted  flow  of 
musical  publications  during  the  Commonwealth,  and  that, 
at  the  very  time  when  the  theatres  were  closed,  operas 
were  being  prepared  for  the  stage,  masques  rehearsed,  and 
countless  themes  composed  for  instrument  and  voice.  Dur- 
ing this  period  such  musicians  as  the  brothers  Lawes, 
"Captain"  Cooke,  and  Dr.  Colman  flourished,  while  the 
works  of  their  predecessors,  Coperario,  Orlando  Gibbons, 
Morley  and  Hilton,  found  a  ready  market. 

The  Puritans  themselves  can  hardly  be  accused  of  any 
decided  distaste  for  music.  The  prevailing  impression  that 
they  were  quite  devoid  of  aesthetic  sensibility  is  absolutely 
unfounded.  Some  fanatics  there  were,  whose  zealous  fol- 
loT\ang  of  the  ascitic  life  left  no  room  for  any  pleasure 
whatsoever.  Some  there  were,  who  thought  themselves 
the  servants  of  God  when  engaged  in  smashing  cathedral 
windows,  destroying  valuable  organs,  and  burning  choir- 
books.  But  these  individuals  hardly  represent  the  spirit 
of  the  entire  body.  At  the  worst,  the  hostility  of  the 
Puritans  was  directed  against  church  music  only,  not 
secular  music,  and  the  latter,  except  for  the  closing  of  the 
theatres,  was  allowed  to  continue  its  way,  uninterrupted. 
More  positive  testimony  in  regard  to  the  Puritans'  atti- 
tude toward  music  may  be  derived  from  the  lives  of  such 
representative   men   as   Cromwell,    Bunyan   and   Colonel 


ON  Milton's  knowledge  of  music.  41 

Hutchiusou.  All  of  the  Protector's  biographers  mention 
his  love  of  music,  his  introduction  of  the  "state  concerts" 
and  his  employment  of  a  private  musician,  John  Kingston, 
who  also  lacted  as  instructor  to  his  daughters.  John 
Bunyan's  writings  show  a  lively  interest  in  music,  which 
is  amply  supported  by  the  popular  story  of  the  flute  cut 
out  of  the  leg  of  a  prison  chair.  Colonel  Hutchinson,  that 
stern  old  regicide,  is  described  in  his  wife's  memoirs  as 
one  who  "could  dance  admirably  well,"  and  "had  a  great 
love  to  music,  and  often  diverted  himself  with  a  viol  on 
which  he  play'd  masterly."  Aside  from  such  individual 
cases,  the  spirit  of  the  time  is  best  illustrated  by  such  quo- 
tations as  the  following  from  an  anonymous  "Short  Trea- 
tise against  Stage-Playes"  (1625).  A  list  of  "natural 
recreations,"  such  as  change  of  occupation,  sleep,  etc.,  con- 
cludes with  the  words:  "Musicke  is  a  chearefuU  recrea- 
tion to  the  minde  that  hath  been  blunted  with  serious  medi- 
tations. These  and  such  like  are  holy  and  good  recreations, 
both  comfortable  and  profitable."  It  is  even  possible  to 
quote  in  this  connection  from  Prynne's  "Histriomastix," 
— that  celebrated  attack  upon  all  light  amusements,  Avhich 
proved  so  costly  to  its  author.  He  begins  his  remarks  on 
music  with  the  following  words :  "That  musicke  of  itselfe 
is  lawfull,  usefuU  and  commendable,  no  man,  no  Christian, 
dares  denie,  since  the  Scriptures,  fathers,  and  generally 
all  Christian,  all  Pagan  authors  extant,  do  with  one  con- 
sent averre  it." 

The  prevalence  of  music  in  all  classes  of  society  and 
under  all  conditions  is  pointed  out  by  Chappell,  when  he 
says:  "Tinkers  san,g  catches;  milkmaids  sang  ballads; 
carters  Avhistled ;  each  trade  and  even  the  beggars,  had 
their  special  songs;  the  base-viol  hung  in  the  drawing- 
room  for  the  amusement  of  waiting  visitors,  and  the  lute, 


42  SIGMUND   GOTTFEIED   SPAETH. 

cittern  aud  virginals,  for  the  amusement  of  waiting  cus- 
tomers, were  the  necessary  furniture  of  the  barber's  shop. 
They  had  music  at  dinner,  music  at  supper,  music  at  wed- 
dings, music  at  funerals,  music  at  night,  music  at  daA\Ti, 
music  at  work,  music  at  play." 

A  passage  in  Morley's  "Plaine  and  Easie  Introduction 
to  Practicall  Musicke"  (159Y)  gives  sufficient  ground  for 
the  assertion  that  a  knowledge  of  music  was  considered 
indispensable  to  the  training  of  a  gentleman.  In  the  dia- 
logue between  Polymathes  and  Philomathes,  the  fonner 
says :  ''I  pray  you  repeat  some  of  the  discourses  which 
you  had  yesternight  at  ]Master  Sopliobulus  his  banket, 
for  commonly  he  is  not  without  both  wise  and  learned 
guestes."  Philomathes  answers:  "It  is  true  indeed,  and 
yesternight  there  were  a  number  of  excellent  schoUers, 
both  gentlemen  and  others ;  but  all  the  propose  which  was 
then  discoursed  upon  was  musicke." 

Polymathes :  "I  trust  you  were  contented  to  suffer  others 
to  speake  of  that  matter." 

Philomathes :  "I  would  that  had  been  the  worst ;  for  I 
was  compelled  to  discover  uiine  own  ignorance,  and  con- 
fesse  that  I  knew  nothing  at  all  in  it." 

Polymathes :  "How  so  ?" 

Philomathes:  "Among  the  rest  of  the  guestes  by  chance 
Master  Apliron  came  thither  also,  who  falling  to  discourse 
of  musicke,  was  in  an  argniment  so  quickly  taken  up  and 
ho(tly  pursued  by  Eudoxus  and  Calergiis,  two  kinsmen  of 
Master  Sophobulus,  as  in  his  OA^m  art  he  was  overthrowne, 
but  he  still  sticking  in  his  opinion,  the  two  gentlemen  re- 
quested me  to  examine  his  reasons  and  confute  them,  but 
I  refusing,  and  pretending  ignorance,  the  whole  company 
condemned  me  of  discourtesie,  being  fully  persuaded  that 
I  had  been  as  skilfull  in  that  art  as  thev  took  mee  to  be 


ON  Milton's  knowledge  of  music.  43 

learned  in  others;  but  supper  being  ended,  and  miisicke 
bookes,  according  to  the  custome,  being  brought  to  the 
table,  the  mistress  of  the  house  presented  me  with  a  part, 
earnestly  requesting  me  to  sing,  but  when,  after  many 
excuses,  I  protested  unfainedly  that  I  could  not,  everie 
one  began  to  wonder,  yea  some  whispered  to  others,  de- 
manding how  I  was  brought  up ;  so  that  upon  shame  of 
mine  ignorance  I  goe  nowe  to  seek  out  mine  old  friende 
Master  Gnorimus  to  make  myself  his  scholar." 

It  is  of  interest  to  compare  with  this  a  passage  in 
Peacham's  "Compleat  Gentleman,"  in  which  he  says:  "I 
desire  no  more  in  you  than  to  sing  your  part  sure  and  at 
the  first  sight ;  withal  to  })lay  the  same  upon  your  Viol,  or 
the  exercise  of  the  Lute,  privately  to  yourself." 

Such  passages  as  these  show  beyond  question  that  Eng- 
lish music  was  enjoying  its  greatest  vogue  from  the  Eliza- 
bethan period  doA\Ti  to  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
While  the  productions  of  this  time  were  rarely  of  sufR- 
cient  importance  to  be  regarded  as  "classical,"  yet  their 
number  was  so  great  and  their  popularity  so  widespread 
that  they  made  England  a  "musically  understanding" 
country.  For  the  structure  of  these  compositions  was 
almost  invariably  contrapuntal  in  the  extreme,  and  de- 
manded a  knowledge  of  theory  and  harmony  on  the  part 
of  both  performer  and  listener.  Intricate  arrangements 
and  complex  elaborations  were  of  more  consequence  than 
melodious  themes.  It  was  the  age  of  the  madrigal,  the 
glee,  the  "round,"  the  complex  "mottect"  of  sacred  music. 
Cavalier  and  Puritan  alike,  soldier,  statesman  and  peasant, 
all  had  their  part  in  the  universal  love  of  music, — music 
not  merely  as  an  amusement  but  as  a  science. 

A  poet  born  into  such  a  world  as  this,  and  passing  his 
entire  life  in  such  an  atmosphere,  could  hardly  escape  a 


44  SIGMUND   GOTTFRIED   SPAETH. 

touch  of  the  general  passion.  But  add  to  this  the  more 
vital  influences  of  heredity,  education  and  personal  envi- 
ronment, and  the  materials  for  the  development  of  a  mas- 
ter musician  are  complete.  Milton's  father  was  a  well- 
known  composer  of  the  old  school,  and  some  of  his  work  has 
survived  to  the  present  day.  He  was  one  of  twenty-three 
contributors  to  "The  Triumphs  of  Oriana,"  a  collection  of 
madrigals  written  in  honor  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  con- 
sidered the  most  snccessful  and  representative  music  book 
of  the  time.  When  the  names  of  other  contributors,  such 
as  Morley,  Wilbye,  Bennet  and  Ellis  Gibbons,  are  men- 
tioned, the  prominence  of  the  elder  Milton  becomes  appar- 
ent. Edward  Philips  records  that  he  composed  a  forty- 
voiced  "In  Nomine,"  for  a  Polish  prince,  who  rewarded 
him  with  a  gold  chain  and  medal.  Such  a  feat,  by  the  way, 
was  not  at  all  unusual  in  those  days  of  elaborate  counter- 
point. Hawkins  and  Burney,  in  their  histories  of  music, 
both  quote  compositions  of  the  elder  Milton  with  favorable 
comment,  and  one  of  his  psalm  tunes,  kno^vn  by  the  title  of 
"York,"  is  still  in  use.  The  poet's  estimate  of  his  father 
as  a  musician  is  exhibited  in  his  Latin  elegy,  "Ad  Patrcm," 
when  in  the  course  of  his  argument  in  support  of  his  pur- 
suit of  literature  he  says: — 

"Nor  thou  persist.  I  pray  thee,  still  to  slight 

The  sacred  Niue,  aiul  to  imagine  vain 

Aud  useless,  powers  by  whom   inspired  thyself, 

Art  skilful  to  asscx'iate  verse  with  airs 

Harmonious,  and  to  give  the  human  voice 

A  thousand   modulations,   heir   by   right 

Indisputable  of  Arion's  fame. 

Now  say,  what  wonder  is  it,  if  a  son 

Of  thine  delight  in  verse,  if  so  conjoined 

In  close  affinity,  we  sympathize 

In  social  arts  aud  kindred  studies  sweet?" 

{Coioper's   Translation.) 


ON  Milton's  knowledge  of  music.  45 

If  the  influences  of  heredity  tended  to  make  Milton  a 
musician,  those  of  education  and  personal  environment 
certainly  played  their  part  in  the  development  of  the  ten- 
dency. Autobiographical  passages  scattered  all  through 
his  "works  show  how  thorough  was  his  early  training  both 
in  practical  and  theoretical  music,  undoubtedly  at  the 
hands  of  his  able  father.  Later  he  came  into  contact  with 
many  skilled  musicians,  notably  Henry  Lawes,  immortal- 
ized in  the  "Comus"  and  the  flattering  Sonnet  XIII. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  estimate  the  exact  extent  of 
Milton's  practical  ability  as  a  musician.  That  he  pos- 
sessed a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  current  systems  of 
harmony  and  counterpoint  must  remain  undisputed,  not 
only  from  the  clearness  and  technical  correctness  of  his 
allusions,  but  also  from  the  fact  that  the  poet  never  under- 
took a  study  of  any  kind  without  obtaining  a  complete 
grasp  of  the  subject.  This  would  not,  however,  affect  his 
skill  as  a  performer,  which  can  be  gauged  in  no  way  except 
by  the  reports  of  his  biographers.  Aubrey  says  "He  had 
a  delicate,  tuneable  voice  and  had  good  skill.  His  father 
instructed  him."  '^He  had  an  organ  in  his  house,  he 
played  on  that  most."  One  of  his  biographers  reports 
that  he  played  the  viol  also,  but  I  can  find  no  foundation 
for  this  statement.  All  his  biographers  agree,  however, 
that  Milton  was  an  organist  of  some  ability.  The  organ 
mentioned  by  Aubrey  may  have  been  the  property  of  his 
father  before  him.  In  his  youth  the  poet  probably  heard 
the  great  organ  at  St.  Paul's,  and  during  his  University 
days  there  was  undoubtedly  an  organ  at  Christ's  College, 
Cambridge.  Milton's  knowledge  of  the  organ,  even  in  its 
structure  and  mechanism,  appears  to  be  so  intimate,  and 
his  love  for  the  instrument  so  great,  that  his  references 
must  here  be  given  some  particular  comment.     It  is  inter- 


46  SIGMUND   GOTTFEIED   SPAETH. 

esting  to  note  that  while  the  poet  mentions  a  wealth  of 
mnsical  instrnments,  snch  as  the  Inte,  the  lyre,  the  viol, 
the  trumpet,  he  treats  them  all  in  conventional  fashion, 
and  it  is  only  when  he  deals  with  the  organ  that  he  ex- 
hibits special  partiality  and  personal  affection.  It  is  worth 
noting  that  it  is  the  only  instrument  alluded  to  in  his 
"Commonplace  Book."  ("Organa  pvimum  in  Gallia,  Les 
Ambassadeurs  de  Constantin  emperour  Grec  apporterent 
a  roy  Pepin  des  Orgues,  qu'on  n'avoit  pas  encore  veues  en 
France.  Girard,  Hist.  France,  1.  3,  p.  138.")  When 
the  jDoet  tells  us  in  the  "Second  Defence  of  the  People 
of  England"  that,  during  his  life  at  Horton,  he  "occa- 
sionally visited  the  metropolis  .  .  .  for  the  sake  of 
learning  something  new  in  mathematics  or  music,"  in 
which  he,  at  that  time,  "found  a  source  of  pleasure  and 
amusement,"  he  may  refer  to  regular  organ  or  singing 
lessons,  although  it  is  more  likely  that  his  practical  edu- 
cation had  by  this  time  been  completed  and  that  his 
trips  to  London  were  rather  for  the  sake  of  hearing  some 
new  music  or  possibly  buying  some  recent  publications. 
It  is  often  claimed  that  Henry  Lawes  acted  as  Milton's 
music  teacher,  but  such  a  statement  has  no  foundation 
other  than  their  friendship  and  mutual  regard. 

Milton's  love  for  the  organ  continued  all  through  his 
life.  That  he  was  acquainted  with  its  structure  as  well 
as  with  its  manipulation,  is  shown  by  the  famous  passage 
in  the  first  book  of  Paradise  Lost,  describing  the  building 
of  Pandemonium, — (702-709) 

"A   second   multitude 
With  wondrous  art  found  out  tlie  massy  ore, 
Severing  eacli  Icind.  and  soumm'd  tlie  bullion  dross; 
A  tbird  as  soon  bad  form'd  witbin  tbe  ground 


ON  Milton's  knowledge  of  music.  47 

A  various  mould,  and  from  the  boiling  cells 

By  strange  conveyance  fill'd  each  hollow  nook, 

As  in  an  oryan  from  one  blast  of  wind 

To  nuinii  a  row  of  pipes  the  sound-hoard  breathes." 

The  accuracy  of  this  simile  has  often  been  remarked 
upon.  Keightley  (Life,  p.  433)  gives  the  following  ex- 
planation: "The  wind  produced  by  the  bellows  is  driven 
into  a  reservoir,  called  Ihe  wind  chest  (above  which  is 
placed  the  sound-bo'ard)  and  then  by  intricate  contriv- 
ances conveyed  to  each  row  of  pipes.  When  a  stop  is 
drawn,  the  supply  of  wind  is  prepared  for  every  pipe  in 
it  and  it  is  admitted  when  the  organist  presses  the  key 
he  wishes  to  speak." 

The  structure  of  the  organ  and  the  character  of  its 
sounds  are  often  reflected  in  passages  ordinarily  con- 
sidered devoid  of  musical  significance  as,  for  instance,  in 
the  use  of  the  word  "exhalation,"  a  favorite  with  Milton, 
or  when,  in  the  "Second  Defence"  he  "can  hardly  refrain 
from  assuming  a  more  lofty  and  swelling  tone."  Such 
an  expression  as  the  latter  inevitably  suggests  the  poet 
sitting  at  his  organ,  improvising  in  simple  and  "harmo- 
nious measttres,"  but  with  now  and  then  the  temptation 
to  draw  out  a  stop  and  thunder  his  indignation  "fortis- 
simo." The  frequent  allusions  to  "pipes"  may  also  have 
been  inspired  by  the  sound  of  organ-pipes  rather  than 
of  the  primitive  instruments,  which,  to  the  poet,  of  course 
could  have  been  nothing  more  than  a  name. 

The  sublimity  of  the  organ  in  Milton's  estimation  is 
clearly  attested  by  several  passages  relating  to  mystic  and 
divine  music.  In  the  "Hymn  on  the  Morning  of  Christ's 
ISTativity,"  after  describing  the  song  of  the  angels  and 
summoning,  as  it  were,  all  the  forces  of  ISTature  to  join 


48  SIGMUND   GOTTFRIED   SPAETH. 

ill  that  triumphant  chorus,  he  reaches  a  musical  climax 
in  the  lines— (125-132) 

"Ring  out  ye  crystal  spheres, 

Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

(If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so,) 

And  let  your  silver  chime 

Move  in  melodious  time ; 

And  let  the  bass  of  Heaven's  deep  organ  hlow. 

And  with  your  lainefold  harmony 

Make  up  full  consort  to  th'  angelic  symphony." 

Here  the  foundation  of  the  spiritual  music  is  the  organ, 
an  instrument  most  naively  introduced  into  this  pecu- 
liarly Christian  interpretation  of  a  pagan  conception. 

On  the  hallowed  seventh  day,  the  music  of  Heaven  was 
by  no  means  silent.     (P.  L.  VII,  594-509.) 

"the  harp 
Had  work  and  rested  not.  the  solemn  pipe, 
And  (htlelmer,  all  organs  of  sweet  stop. 
All    sounds   on    fret   by    string   or   golden    wire, 
Tempered  soft  tunings,  intermixt  with  voice, 
Choral  or  unison." 

The  figure  here  is  a  different  one  in  the  fact  that  the 
inhabitants  of  Heaven  evidently  possess  separate  "organs 
of  sweet  stop"  with  which  they  accompany  the  celestial 
choruses. 

A  most  interesting  description  of  the  organ  in  a  mystic 
setting  occurs  in  the  eleventh  book  of  Paradise  Lost, 
(lines  556  to  56eS).  Michael  is  showing  Adam  in  a  vision 
the  future  races  of  men. 

"He  look'd  and  saw  a  spacious  plain,  whereon 
Were  tents  of  various  hue ;  by  some  were  herds 
Of  cattle  grazing ;  others  whence  the  sound 
Of   instruments   that   made   melodious   chime 
Wns  heard,  of  harp  and  organ ;  and  who  mov'd 
Their  stops  and  chords  was  seen ;  his  volant  touch 
Instinct,  through  all  proportions  low  and  high 
Fled  and  pursu'd  transverse  the  resonant  fugue." 


ON  Milton's  knowledge  of  music.  49 

The  full  force  of  this  picture  has  never  been  satisfac- 
torily explained.  The  passage  is  fairly  teeming  with 
technical  terms,  and  Professor  Taylor  can  hardly  be 
blamed  for  suggesting  that  ''its  pregnant  meaning  can  be 
fully  appreciated  only  by  a  musician."  Strangely  enough, 
however,  even  musicians  disagree  as  to  the  exact  signifi- 
cance of  such  words  as  "volant,"  "instinct,"  "propor- 
tions low  and  high,"  "transverse"  and  "resonant."  Com- 
mentators in  general  have  made  no  effort  to  give  these 
terms  any  definite  meaning,  and  the  definitions  found  in 
Miss  Lockwood's  "Dictionary"  (the  latest  authority  on 
the  subject)  are  in  most  oases  unsatisfactory  from  a 
musical  standpoint.  "Volant  touch"  should  present  no 
great  difficulty.  It  can  hardly  mean  anything  but  a  light, 
fleeting  touch,  such  as  a  supernatural  organist  might  be 
assumed  to  possess.  "Instinct,"  I  take  it,  means  that  the 
performer  was  improvising — playing  without  notes,  but 
instinctively  finding  correct  harmonies  and  following  the 
accurate  structure  of  a  fugue.  What,  then,  are  "propor- 
tions low  and  high  ?"  Joannes  Tinctor,  who  published 
the  first  musical  dictionary  in  1474,  said  "Proportio  est 
duorum  numerorum  habitudo,"  thus  making  Proportion 
practically  synonymous  with  Ratio  (the  arithmetical 
term),  a  usage  which  has  continued  to  the  present  day. 
Strictly  speaking,  however,  a  true  proportion  should  con- 
tain (mathematically)  three  terms,  which  is  hardly  ever 
true  in  music.  "Of  the  three  principal  kinds  of  Propor- 
tion known  to  mathematicians,  two  only — the  arithmetical 
and  geometrical  species — are  extensively  used  in  music ; 
the  former  in  connection  with  differences  of  pitch  and 
rhythm,  the  later  in  the  construction  of  the  time  table, 
the  scale  of  organ  pipes,  and  other  matters  of  importance." 
(Grove's   Dictionary   of  Music.)      Milton's   reference   is 


50  SIGMUND   GOTTFRIED   SPAETH. 

obviously  to  proportions  of  pitch  and  rhythm.  He  prob- 
ably possessed  a  table  constructed  by  Thomas  Morley  (and 
published  in  his  treatise)  in  which  all  the  different  kinds 
of  proportion  then  in  general  use  were  exhibited.  The 
Octave,  for  instance,  was  represented  by  the  Proportion 
called  Dupla,  the  Perfect  Fifth  by  Sesquialtera,  the  Per- 
fect Fourth  by  Sesquitertia.  Such  simple  proportions 
as  these  would  naturally  be  called  ''low,"  while  the  more 
complicated  combinations  would  be  termed  "high."  These 
words  do  not,  therefore,  as  I  take  it,  refer  to  differences 
of  pitchj  but  to  degrees  of  complexity,  both  in  intervals 
and  in  time.  (Of.  "well-proportioned  melodies," — Second 
Defence ;  "disproportioned  sin," — Solemn  Music  19 ; 
"sounding  disproportion  to  the  whole  gospel," — Tetra- 
chordon ;  "these  two  proportioned  ill,  drove  me  trans- 
verse,"— Samson  Agonistes,  209.)  The  words  "fled  and 
pursu'd"  are  here  peculiarly  apt,  when  one  considers  the 
etymology  of  the  word  "fugue"  (Lat.  fugare) — a  flight 
of  themes,  one  chasing  the  other.  "Transverse"  can  hardly 
be  taken  to  mean  "across  the  keys,"  as  defined  by  Miss 
Lockwood.  It  refers  rather  to  the  themes,  crossing  and 
re-crossing,  and  this  meaning  is  completed  by  the  term 
"resonant,"  which  must  be  taken  literally  as  "sounding 
again  and  again."  The  grammatical  structure  of  the  sen- 
tence presents  one  more  difficulty.  Are  we  to  consider 
"touch"  as  the  subject,  making  both  "fled"  and  "pursu'd" 
transitive  verbs,  with  "fugue"  as  the  object  ?  In  view 
of  Milton's  free  use  of  verbs,  transitive  and  intransitive, 
such  a  construction  seems  permissible  and  almost  neces- 
sary. But  there  is  a  possibility  of  considering  "his  volant 
touch  instinct"  as  a  mere  subordinate  phrase,  making 
"fugue"  the  subject  of  the  real  sentence,  with  "fled"  and 
"pursu'd"     both     used     intransitively.       Roughly     para- 


ON  MILTON^S  KNOWLEDGE  OF  MUSIC.  51 

phrased,  the  sentence  would  then  read  about  as  follows: 
"His  light,  fleeting  touch  being  instinctive,  the  fugue, 
sounding  its  themes  again  and  again,  crossing  and  re- 
crossing,  now  fled  now  pursued,  through  all  kinds  of  har- 
monies, simple  and  complex."  The  awkwardness  of  the 
word-order,  although  by  no  means  unusual  in  Milton, 
would  seem  to  make  this  interpretation  rather  far-fetched. 
In  either  case,  however,  the  picture  is  made  more  dis- 
tinct and  vivid  by  the  substitution  of  definite,  concrete 
terms  for  vague,  allegorical  allusions. 

The  organ  appears  also  in  the  musical  climax  of  Tl 
Penseroso  (lGl-166) : 

"There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full  voic'd  quire  below. 

In  service  high,  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  Heav'n  before  mine  eyes." 

Curiously  inconsistent  with  this  is  the  passage  in 
"Eikonoklastes"  in  which  Milton  rails  at  the  follies  and 
hypocrisies  of  the  "King's  Chapel."  "In  his  prayer  he 
remembers  what  Voices  of  joy  and  gladness'  there  were 
in  his  chapel,  'God's  house,'  in  his  opinion,  between  tlie 
singing  men  and  the  organs ;  and  this  was  ^inity  of  spirit 
in  the  bond  of  peace ;'  tlie  vanity,  superstition,  and  mis- 
devotion  of  which  place  was  a  scandal  far  and  near."  It 
must  be  admitted,  however,  that  it  is  the  misuse  of  the 
organ,  rather  than  the  organ  itself  which  is  here  attacked. 
Moreover,  Milton  is  speaking  for  his  party,  not  for 
himself,  and  may  well  be  excused  for  publicly  attacking 
conditions  which  his  private  opinion  might  easily  have 
tolerated. 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  with  this  a  passage  in  the 


52  SIGMUND   GOTTFKIED   SPAETH. 

little  tractate  "On  Education,"  in  which  a  very  personal 
and  sincere  opinion  of  music  is  given.  The  organ  again 
figiires  prominently,  "The  interim  .  .  .  before  meat, 
may,  both  with  profit  and  delight,  be  taken  up  in  recreat- 
ing and  composing  their  travailed  spirits  with  the  solemn 
and  divine  harmonies  of  music,  heard  or  learned,  either 
whilst  the  skilful  organist  plies  his  grave  and  fancied 
descant  in  lofty  fuges,  or  the  whole  symphony  with  artful 
and  unimaginable  touches  adorn  and  grace  the  well- 
studied  chords  of  some  choice  composer;  sometimes  the 
lute  or  soft  organ-stop  waiting  on  elegant  voices,  either  to 
religious,  martial,  or  civil  ditties ;  which,  if  wise  men  and 
prophets  be  not  extremely  out,  have  a  great  power  over 
dispositions  and  manners,  to  smooth  and  make  them 
gentle  from  rustic  harshness  and  distempered  passions." 
The  picture  here  given  of  the  actual  organist  may  well 
be  compared  with  that  of  the  visionary  one  in  P.  L.  XI, 
560  if.  In  this  instance  he  "plies  his  grave  and  fancied 
descant  in  lofty  fuges,"  a  perfonnance  certainly  similar 
to  that  in  which  the  organist  instinctively,  "through  all 
proportions  low  and  high,  fled  and  pursu'd  transverse 
the  resonant  fugue."  Morley  defines  "descant"  (or  "dis- 
cant")  as  "singing  a  part  extempore  on  a  playne-song." 
The  force  here  is  evidently  that  of  improvisation  on  some 
set  theme,  the  words  "grave"  and  "fancied"  having  much 
the  same  significance  as  "proportions  low  and  high." 
In  other  words,  the  organist  improvises,  probably  on  well- 
kuo^vn  themes,  at  first  in  single  chords  and  harmonies, 
and  then  more  fancifully,  with  elaborations  and  complex 
"proportions."  The  care  and  technical  correctness  with 
which  Milton  uses  the  word  "descant"  is  illustrated  by 
his  description  of  the  nightingale  who  "all  night  long  her 
amorous  descant  sung."     (P.  L.  IV,  G03.)     The  aptness 


ON  milton's  knowledge  of  music.  53 

of  the  word  in  tliis  connection  is  obvious,  for,  of  all  bird- 
songs,  that  of  the  nightingale  probably  conies  nearest 
to  an  actual  improvisation. 

Granting  that  the  organ  was  Milton's  favorite  instru- 
ment, it  becomes  difficult  to  find  any  others  treated  with 
particular  partiality.  While  the  allusions  are  always 
technically  correct,  they  are  usually  also  merely  conven- 
tional, and  the  instrument  seems  generally  to  be  selected 
to  fit  the  situation,  rather  than  the  situation  the  instru- 
ment. 

In  "Areopagitica"  a  satirical  passage,  comparing  the 
possible  licensing  of  musical  instruments  Avith  that  of 
books,  makes  particular  mention  of  "'the  lutes,  the  violins 
and  the  guitars  in  every  house,"  besides  "the  bagpipe  and 
the  rebec"  of  the  villages.  The  names  appearing  here 
are,  of  course,  no  indication  of  the  author's  taste  or  prefer- 
ence. (The  fact  that  they  are  "in  every  house"  furnisheo 
another  interesting  clue  to  the  prevalence  of  music  in 
Milton's  time.)  The  rebec  (rebeck)  has  been  defined  as 
a  kind  of  fiddle,  and  seems  to  be  the  symbol,  in  the  poet's 
mind,  of  village  music,  as  is  shown  by  the  well-known 
lines  in  L' Allegro,  (93-96), 

"When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To   many   a   youth,   and   many   a   maid, 
Dancing  in  the  chequer'd  shade." 

In  his  many  descriptions  of  sacred  music,  Milton  natu- 
rally refers  most  often  to  the  harp  and  the  trumpet,  the 
conventional  instruments  of  the  angelic  hosts.  It  is  sig- 
nificant that  when  such  descriptions  are  most  vivid,  a 
realistic  touch  is  added  by  the  introduction  of  such 
instruments  as  the  lute,  the  lyre,  the  dulcimer  and  the  or- 


54:  SIGMUND  GOTTFEIED  SPAETH. 

gan.  The  harp  is  mentioned  altogether  sixteen  times  and 
the  trumpet  fifteen  times  in  the  |X)€tical  works.  This  would 
seem  to  indicate  that  these  instruments  were  the  favor- 
ites of  the  i3oet.  This  impression,  however,  is  proved 
false  by  the  fact  that  the  pipe  and  reed  (which  occur  ten 
and  nine  times  respectively)  stand  next  in  the  order  of 
preference,  both  of  them  instruments  which  had  no  actual 
existence  for  Milton.  When  we  realize  that,  compared 
with  these  four  (the  harp,  the  trumpet,  the  pipe  and  the 
reed),  the  actual  instruments  of  the  time  and  of  Milton's 
personal  acquaintance  receive,  mth  the  single  exception 
of  the  organ,  a  mere  passing  mention,  then  the  truth  of 
the  matter  becomes  obvious  enough.  Milton's  instru- 
mental references  are  in  most  cases  purely  conventional, 
and  a  majority  of  them  necessarily  concern  either  the 
harp  and  trumpet,  the  conventional  instruments  of  the 
Bible,  or  the  pipe  and  reed,  the  conventional  instruments 
of  pagan  mythology.  When  we  consider  how  greatly 
Milton  was  indebted  to  these  two  sources,  the  prevalence 
of  their  conventional  instruments  is  not  remarkable. 
Wherever  a  more  detailed  knowledge  or  a  more  intimate 
acquaintance  is  needed,  however,  it  will  be  observed  that 
Milton  never  wanders  very  far  from  the  organ,  which  is 
his  own  instrument,  the  one  which  he  knows  most  thor- 
oughly. 

The  inference  which  naturally  arises  from  such  statis- 
tics as  the  foregoing  is  that  Milton  was,  in  general,  more 
interested  and  better  versed  in  vocal  than  in  instrumental 
music.  Several  facts  may  be  cited  to  prove  that  this  is 
correct.  In  the  age  in  which  he  lived,  vocal  music  was, 
on  the  whole,  much  more  popular  than  instrumental. 
Madrigals,  airs,  dialogues  and  rounds  were  sitill  the  com- 
monest fonns,  while  masques,  such  as  ''Comus,"  were  pre- 


ON  MILTON^S  KNOWLEDGE  OF  MUSIC.  55 

paring  the  way  for  the  flood  of  opera  which  was  soon  to 
follow.  Out  of  forty-five  "music  books"  (i.  e.  collec- 
tions) published  between  1627  and  1659,  twenty-eight 
were  entirely  vocal  as  against  nine  of  an  instrumental 
character,  the  rest  being  a  mixture  of  the  two,  often  inter- 
spersed with  remarks  on  theory  and  harmony.  It  must 
be  remembered,  also,  that  Milton's  father  -wi'ote  almost 
entirely  vocal  music,  as  did  Henry  Lawes  and  other 
musical  friends  of  the  poet.  Of  Milton's  own  abilities  we 
have  ample  testimony  from  his  biographers.  Aubrey  has 
already  been  quoted  as  referring  to  his  "delicate,  tuneable 
voice."  The  same  biogi'apher  makes  particular  mention 
of  Milton's  singing  to  keep  up  his  spirits  during  his 
attacks  of  gout  late  in  life.  Further  evidence  lies  in  the 
fact  that  he  taught  his  nephews  to  sing.  But  the  most 
convincing  proof  is  found  in  Milton's  writings.  In  his 
Paradise  Lost  alone,  some  variation  of  the  verb  "sing," 
or  the  noun  "song"  occurs  no  less  than  sixty-one  times, 
while  reference  is  made  to  the  human  voice  in  a  musical 
way,  no  less  than  forty-three  times.  Other  poems,  and 
particularly  the  prose  works,  are  full  of  allusions.  Wlien- 
ever  the  poet  wishes  to  express  some  general  musical  idea, 
he  almost  invariably  uses  the  figure  of  singing.  Of  course 
his  use  of  the  term  is  again  in  most  cases  purely  conven- 
tional. His  intimacy  with  classical  poetry  and  his  depend- 
ence on  its  figures  of  speech  would  naturally  lead  to 
such  a  use.  At  times  it  is  employed  as  a  synonym  for 
the  writing  of  verse.  At  other  times  an  actual  chant  is 
implied,  in  the  manner  of  the  ancient  bards.  But  often 
the  word  is  to  be  taken  quite  literally,  as  when  in  the 
description  of  the  fallen  angels  (P.  L.  II,  553),  "Their 
song  was  parUal,  but  the  hannony  (what  could  it  less 
when  spirits  immortal  sing?)   Suspended  Hell,  and  took 


56  SIGMUND   GOTTFRIED   SPAETH. 

with  ravishment  the  thronging  audience."  (The  word 
'^partial/'  in  this  passage,  is  usually  explained  as  mean- 
ing "prejudiced — i.  e.,  "partial  to  themselves,"  "sung 
from  their  own  point  of  view  only."  Such  a  usage  seems 
weak  and  colloquial  for  a  man  of  Milton's  careful  choice 
of  words.  Could  it  not  be  given  a  musical  sig-nificance, 
in  the  sense  that  they  were  singing  very  different  parts 
of  the  same  story,  each  one  for  himself,  yet  producing 
ravishing  harmony  in  spite  of  the  "partial"  character  of 
the  song  ?) 

The  commonest  forms  of  vocal  music  were  evidently 
very  familiar  to  Milton  and  allusions  to  them  appear  fre- 
quently in  his  writings.  He  naturally  gives  the  prefer- 
ence again  to  sacred  forms,  the  hymn  and  the  anthem 
being  his  favorites.  Of  the  popular  and  complicated 
"inottects"  (sacred  part-songs  with  instrumental  accom- 
paniments) he  makes  no  mention  whatever,  probably  be- 
cause the  word  was  an  extremely  unpoetical  one,  and  its 
meaning  could  easily  be  included  in  the  general  term 
"anthem."  Airs  (ayres)  and  madrigals  were  the  popular 
forms  of  secular  song.  The  latter  may  be  defined  as 
part-songs,  written  in  counterpoint,  without  instrumental 
accompaniment,  and  often  set  to  words  of  little  or  no 
meaning.  Airs  differed  from  them  in  possessing  a  regu- 
lar accompaniment  and  in  lacking  counterpoint  and  com- 
plex harmonies.  This  distinction,  however,  was  not 
always  closely  observed,  and  the  forms  were  often  con- 
fused after  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  when 
the  madrigal  was  gradually  losing  its  popularity.  It  may 
easily  be  surmised  that  a  form  of  part-song  in  which  the 
words  were  of  little  moment  but  the  accuracy  of  harmony 
all-important,  would  soon  give  way  to  iustnnnental  forms 
based    on    the   same    structure.      This    was    actually    the 


ON  Milton's  knowledge  of  music.  57 

case,  and  the  "fantasies"  and  "little  consorts"  of  Milton's 
own  time  are  really  only  madrigals  in  instrumental  form. 
There  are  several  allusions  to  "airs,"  on  the  part  of  Milton, 
which  may  usually  be  interpreted  in  the  conventional  way, 
but  must  in  one  or  two  instances  be  given  the  technical 
force,  as  when  in  "Areopagitica"  he  mentions  the  com- 
bination of  "airs  and  madrigals  that  Avhisper  softness  in 
chambers,"  and  when  in  Sonnet  XIII,  Henry  Lawes  is 
described  as  the  one  "that  with  smooth  airs"  could  "humor 
best  our  tongue."  The  technical  force  of  the  word  might 
also  be  applied  in  such  lines  as  "harmonious  airs  were 
heard,"  P.  E.  II,  3G2  ;  "lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs," 
L' Allegro,  136 ;  "me  softer  airs  befit,  and  softer  strings," 
The  Passion,  27. 

The  waning  popularity  of  the  madrigal  may  account 
for  the  fact  that,  aside  from  the  passage  in  "Areopagitica" 
mentioned  above,  Milton  makes  only  one  allusion  to  the 
form,  where  in  "Comus"  (495)  he  speaks  of  "Thyrsis, 
whose  artful  strains  have  oft  dclay'd  the  huddling  brook 
to  hear  his  madrigal."  It  will  be  remembered  that  the 
part  of  Thyrsis  was  played  by  Henry  Lawes,  a  famous 
writer  of  madrigals.  This  would  point  to  the  fact  that 
the  word  is  here  used  in  its  technical  sense,  as  a  slight 
compliment  to  the  composer,  not,  as  most  editors  take  it, 
in  the  conventional  meaning  of  "pastoral  song." 

The  friendship  between  Henry  Lawes  and  Milton  will 
always  continue  to  be  of  interest  to  lovers  of  music  and 
literature  alike.  It  is  doubtful  whether  Lavves  would  ever 
have  attained  the  fame  which  he  now  possesses  had  it  not 
been  for  the  enthusiastic  eulogies  of  Milton,  not  only  in 
the  famous  sonnet,  but  also  in  the  personal  passages  of 
the  "Comus."  (It  should  be  stated  that  the  poets  Waller 
and    Hcrrick    gave    public    expression    to    opinions    of 


58  SIGMUND   GOTTFRIED   SPAETH. 

Lawes  as  flattering  as  those  of  Milton.)     Henry  Lawes 
was  considerably  older  than  Milton.      Their  friendship 
may  have  continued  up  to  the  time  of  the  composer's  death 
in  1662.     But  it  is  extremely  doubtful  whether  the  rela- 
tions  of  teacher   and  pupil   ever  existed  between  them. 
The  inspiration  for  "Comus"  certainly  came  from  Lawes. 
(It  has  been  suggested  that  he  may  also  have  been  re- 
sponsible for  the  "Arcades.")     The  masque  of  "Comus" 
was  written  for  the  occasion  of  the  Earl  of  Bridgewater's 
appointment  to  the  Lord  Presidency  of  Wales  and  the 
Marches,  and  was  performed  at  Ludlow  Castle.     Lawes 
had  consented  to  supply  the  music  for  the  celebration. 
Being  desirous  that  it  should  take  the  popular  form  of 
a  masque,  he  persuaded  the  young  Milton  to  write  the 
words  of  "Comus,"  which  he  himself  then  set  to  music. 
The  part  of  "the  Lady"  was  played  by  Lady  Alice  Eger- 
ton,  a  daughter  of  the  Earl,  and  a  pupil  of  Lawes.     The 
latter  himself  took  the  part  of  the  "Attendant   Spirit" 
(afterward  "Thyrsis").     The  performance  seems  to  have 
been  most  successful,   and  the   author  was  evidently  as 
much  pleased  with  the  music  as  was  the  composer  with 
the  lines.     Five  songs  have  survived  in  their  original  setr 
ting,  namely  "From  the  Heavens,"  "Sweet  Echo,"  "Sa- 
brina  Fair,"  "Back  Shepherds,"  and  "Now  My  Task." 
The  historian  Burney,  in  quoting  the  song  "Sweet  Echo," 
points  out  a  number  of  "inaccuracies  of  musical  accen- 
tuations," and  refers  to  one  interval  in  the  music  as  "one 
of  the  most  disagreeable  notes  in  melody  that  the  scale 
could   furnish."      He   adds,    "I   should  be   glad-,   indeed, 
to  be   informed   by   the   most   exclusive   admirer   of   old 
ditties,  what  is  the  musical  merit  of  this  song,   except 
insipid  simplicity,  and  its  having  been  set  for  a  single 
voice  instead  of  being  mangled  by  the  many-headed  mon- 


ON  Milton's  knowledge  of  music.  59 

ster  madrigal."  In  view  of  this  severe  criticism  frcrm  a 
skilled  musician,  the  elaborate  praise  of  Milton's  thir- 
teenth sonnet  may  seem  rather  artificial.  I  quote  in  full: 
"To  Mr.  H.  Lawes,  on  the  Publishing  his  Airs." 

"Harry  whose  tuneful  and  well  measur'cl  song 

First  taught  our  English  music  how  to  span 

Words  with  just  note  and  accent,  not  to  scan 

With  Midas'  ears  committing  short  and  long ; 

Thy  worth  and  skill  exempts  thee  from  the  throng, 

With  praise  enough  for  envy  to  look  wan ; 

To  after  age  thou  shalt  be  writ  the  man, 

That  with  smooth  air  could'st  humour  best  our  tongue. 

Thou  honour'st  Verse,  and  Verse  must  lend  her  wing. 

To  honour  thee,  the  priest  of  Phoebus'  quire. 

That  turn'st  their  happiest  lines  in  hymn  or  story. 

Dante  shall  give  Fame  leave  to  set  thee  higher 

Tlian  his  Cassella,  whom  he  woo'd  to  sing. 

Met  in  the  milder  shades  of  Purgatory." 

("Various  readings"  are  of  interest  from  a  musical 
standpoint  in  line  4,  "misjoining  short  and  long"  and  in 
line  6,  "and  gives  thee  praise  above  the  pipe  of  Pan.") 
Veiled  compliments  to  the  musician  are  also  implied  in 
such  lines  of  the  "Comus"  as  the  following  (86-88), 

"Who  with  his  soft  pipe  and  smooth-dittied  song 
Well  knows  to  still  the  wild  winds  w^heu  they  roar. 
And  hush  the  waving  woods." 

And  the  lines  (494-  ff.)  quoted  above,  "Thyrsis,  whose 
artful  strains,"  etc.     And  again  in  lines  623-625, 

"He  lov'd  me  well,  and  oft  would  beg  me  sing. 
Which  when  I  did,  he  on  the  tender  grass 
Would  sit  and  hearken  even  to  ecstasy." 

Milton  evidently  felt  that  Lawes'  settings  were  more 
in  harmony  with  the  words  than  those  of  other  musicians, 
who  overpowered  the  beauty  of  the  lines  by  the  force  of 


60  SIGMUND   GOTTFRIED   SPAETH. 

their  own  melodies.  In  this  connection  Burney's  opinion 
is  again  interesting.  He  says  ''The  notes  set  by  Lawes 
to  the  song  of  'Sweet  Echo,'  neither  constitnte  an  air  nor 
melody,  .and,  indeed,  they  are  even  too  frequently  pro- 
longed for  recitative.  It  is  diflficnlt  to  give  a  name,  from 
the  copious  technica  with  which  the  art  of  music  is  fur- 
nished, to  such  a  series  of  unmeaning  sounds."  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  this  style  of  musical  setting  is  generally  known 
as  "aria  parlante," — implying  a  preservation  of  the  ac- 
cent and  rhythm  of  the  spoken  words,  without  sufficient 
melody  to  direct  the  attention  from  them.  It  is  only 
natural  that  such  a  style  should  have  been  popular  with 
the  poets  Avho  supplied  the  words.  Lawes  was  content 
to  subordinate  his  music  to  his  lines.  His  reward  was 
an  immortal  characterization  from  the  pen  of  one  of  the 
world's  greatest  poets.  (It  is  worth  noting  that  Lawes 
made  a  change  in  the  lines  of  "Sweet  Echo,"  which 
undoubtedly  detracted  from  their  beauty  but  was  evidently 
countenanced  by  the  poet.  The  words  "and  give  resound- 
ing grace  to  all  heaven's  liarmonies,"  become  in  the  Lawes 
setting  "and  hold  a  counter-point  to  all  heaven's  harmo- 
nies,"— technical  but  not  particularly  graceful.)  In  1637 
Lawes,  in  answer  to  a  general  demand,  published  the 
"Comus"  (without  music)  probably  with  the  consent  of 
the  author,  and  in  the  following  year  he  obtained  for 
Milton  his  passport  for  continental  travel.  After  this 
time  there  is  no  evidence  of  continued  friendship  on  the 
part  of  the  musician  and  the  poet,  although  Milton's 
eulogistic  Sonnet  appeared  with  other  tributes  of  a  similar 
character  in  the  first  edition  of  Lawes'  "Ayres  and  Dia- 
logues"   (1653). 

The   influence   of   Milton's   Italian   journey   upon   his 
musical  taste  and  knowledge  must  be  considered  as  ex- 


ON  MILTON^S  KNOWLEDGE  OF  MUSIC.  61 

tremelj  important.  We  have  a  record  in  one  of  his  letters 
of  a  ''musical  entertainment"  which  he  attended,  and  he 
surely  must  have  come  into  contact  with  many  musicians 
both  in  Florence  and  in  Rome.  That  his  interest  in  music 
at  this  time  was  unabated  is  sho^vn  by  the  fact  that  he 
"sent  home  a  chest  or  two  of  choice  musick-books  of  the 
best  masters  flourishing  about  that  time  in  Italy."  (Life, 
by  Edward  Philips.)  It  is  very  probable  that  Milton 
acquired  his  knowledge  of  ''fugue"  in  Italy,  for  that  style 
of  organ  music  had  just  been  perfected  by  the  great  Fres- 
cobaldi  (not  to  lie  confused  with  the  Florentine  academ- 
ician, Pietro  Frescobaldi,  mentioned  by  Milton  in  his 
letters.)  The  influence  of  the  Italian  phraseology  is  ap- 
parent in  many  of  the  poet's  later  musical  terms.  He 
had  always,  however,  shown  a  fondness  for  words  of  Italian 
origin,  as  appears  from  his  frequent  use  of  "concent" 
(concento),  "symphony"  (sinfonia),  "serenate"  (sere- 
nata),  etc.  "Concento"  is  the  technical  term  for  the  strik- 
ing of  all  the  notes  in  a  chord  of  unison  (the  opposite  of 
arpeggio).  Its  musical  force  becomes  evident  in  such 
lines  as  "that  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concent."  (Solemn 
Music,  0.)  (Bro-wue  retains  "content"  as  in  the  edition 
of  1645.  Some  editors  spell  "consent,"  which  is  obviously 
out  of  place.)  (Cf.  a  line  from  the  Prolusion  "Utrum 
Dies  an  l^ox  prsestantior  sit  ?"  "Cum  A^el  ipsfc  volucres 
nequeant  suum  celare  gaudium,  quin  egressse  nidulis, 
ubi  primum  diluculavit,  aut  in  verticibus  arborum  con- 
cenfn  suavissimo  deliniant  omnia,  aut  sursum  lib- 
rantes  se,  et  quam  possunt  prope  solem  volitent,  redeunti 
gratulaturffi  luci."  Cf.  also  "audi  argiitos  auvium  con- 
centus  et  leves  apum  susnrros,"  occuiTing  in  a  Prolusion 
"Mane  citus  lectum  fuge,"  presumed  to  be  by  Milton.) 
The  word  "symphony"  is  often  used  as  if  synonymous 


62  SIGMUND   GOTTFRIED   SPAETH. 

with  ''harmony,"  but  must  sometimes  be  given  a  more 
technical  meaning.  For  instance,  when,  in  the  tractate 
"On  Education,"  "the  whole  symphony  with  artful  and 
unimaginable  touches  adorn  and  grace  the  well-studied 
chords  of  some  choice  composer,"  the  meaning  is  evidently 
that  of  a  choir  or  orchestra,  playing  some  set  piece,  full  of 
art,  and  of  scientific,  well-studied  construction.  At  times, 
the  word  must  be  taken  literally  as  a  certain  style  of  compo- 
sition. In  this  sense  it  appears  in  P.  L.  V,  162 — "and 
choral  symphonies,  day  without  night,"  and  in  the  Hymn 
on  the  Nativity,  132 — "make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic 
symphony."  The  word  is  also  used  as  the  name  of  a  medi- 
seval  musical  instrument  (sinfonia)  of  the  pipe  family, 
and  it  may  possibly  be  interpreted  in  this  sense  in  P.  L. 
1,  712 — "the  sound  of  dulcet  symphonies  and  voices 
sweet."  (The  modern  "symphony"  as  a  musical  form, 
had,  of  course,  not  yet  appeared  in  Milton's  time.) 

Such  facts  as  the  foregoing  are  sufficient  to  prove  the 
technical  correctness  of  Milton's  musical  knowledge.  He 
never  used  musical  terms  in  a  slip-shod  manner,  and  it  is 
a  mistake  to  interpret  them  loosely.  He  never  was  guilty 
of  such  mistakes  as  appear  even  in  Shakespeare,  when 
in  the  one  hundred  and  twenty-eighth  sonnet  he  speaks  of 
virginal  keys  Avhich  "kiss  the  tender  inward  of  thy  hand." 
(Other  notable  examples  of  musical  errors  are  Browning's 
description  of  a  fugue  in  "Master  Hugmes  of  Saxe  Gotha," 
— interesting,  but  incorrect ;  Coleridge's  'loud  bassoon"  in 
the  "Ancient  Mariner;"  and  Tennyson's  agonizing  com- 
bination of  "violin,  flute  and  bassoon"  as  a  band  in 
"Maud.")  Such  errors  as  these  were  impossible  with  a 
man  of  Milton's  training  and  thoroughness.  But  it  is 
to  be  noted  that  he  did  not  allow  his  technical  knowledge 
to  keep  him  from  idealizing  the  art  and  surrounding  it 
with  a  mystic  glamor  which  placed  it  among  the  most 


ON  Milton's  knowledge  of  music.  C3 

sacred  things  of  the  universe.  To  him,  music  was  an  ele- 
ment, a  principle,  something  inherent  in  Nature,  imi- 
versal,  and,  in  its  essence,  incomprehensible  to  mankind. 
He  accepted  the  "sphere-music"  of  the  ancients  as  an  im- 
portant part  of  his  remarkable  cosmography,  and  he  Chris- 
tianized the  pagan  superstition  by  making  his  Heaven  a 
musical  one,  with  troops  of  singing  angels,  and  with  a 
perpetual,  supernatural  harmony.  The  great  "Hymn  on 
the  ]\Iorning  of  Christ's  ISTativity"  might  almost  be  called 
a  "'study  in  sounds,"  so  full  is  it  of  melody,  not  only  in 
suggestion  but  reality.  The  song  of  the  angels  is  pictured 
in  ideal  fashion — 

"When  such  music  sweet, 
Their   hearts   and  ears  did  greet. 
As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  stroolv ; 
Divinely-warbled   voice, 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took ; 
The  air  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose. 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heav'nly 
close."  (93-100) 

"Such  music   (as  'tis  said) 

Before  was  never  made. 

But  when  of  old  the  sons  of  morning  sung. 

While  the  Creator  great, 

His   constellations   set. 

And  the  well-balanc't  world  on  hinges  hung, 

And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 

And  bid  the  weltring  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep." 

"Ring  out  ye  crystal  sidieres. 

Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

(If  ye  have  power  to  touch  oiu"  senses  so) 

And   let  your   silver  chime 

Move   in   melodious  time; 

And  let  the  bass  of  Heaven's  deep  organ  blow ; 

And  with  your  ninefold   harmony 

Make  up  full  consort  to  th'  angelic  symphony." 

(117-132.) 


64  SIGMUND   GOTTFRIED   SPAETH. 

I  have  already  remarked  on  the  addition  of  the  ''bass" 
of  "Heaven's  deep  organ"  to  the  ''sphere-music"  in  this 
passage.  It  is  only  one  of  many,  instances  in  which  a  pagan 
myth  is  given  by  Milton  a  Christian  intei-pretation.  The 
music  which  "the  sons  of  morning  sung"  seems  to  be  de- 
scribed in  P.  L.  VII,  252-260 : 

"Nor  past  uncelebrated,  nor  unsung, 
By  the  celestial  quires,  when  orient  light 
Exhaling  first   from   darkness   they   beheld ; 
Birthday  of  heav'n  and  earth;  with  joy  and  shout 
The  hollow  universal  orb  they  fill'd, 
And  touch't  their  golden  harps,  and  hymning  prais'd 
God  and  his  works,  Creator  him  they  sung, 
Both  when  first  ev'ning  was.  and  when  first  morn." 

Again  in  449 : 

"The  sixth,  and  of  creation  last,  arose 
With   ev'ning   harps   and  matin." 

And  on  the  seventh  day  (594-599) 

"the  harp 
Had  work  and  rested  not,  the  solemn  pipe, 
And  dulcimer,  all  organs  of  sweet  stop. 
All  sounds  on  fret  by  string  or  golden  wire. 
Tempered  soft  tunings,  intermixt  with  voice 
Choral  or  unison." 

In  connection  with  the  heavenly  music,  I  cannot  re- 
frain from,  quoting  entire  the  lines  entitled  "At  a  Sol- 
emn Music" : 

"Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heav'ns  joy, 
Sphere-born  harmonious  sisters,  Voice  and  Verse, 
Wed  your  divine  sounds ;  and  mixt  power  employ 
Dead  things  with  inbreath'd  sense  able  to  pierce ; 
And  to  our  high-rais'd  phantasy  present 
That  undisturbed  song  of  pure  concent, 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-colour'd  throne 
To  him  that  sits  thereon 


ON  Milton's  knowledgk  ok  anisic.  65 

Witli  saintly  shout  and  solemn  jubilee; 

Where  the  bright  seraphim  in  burning  row 

Their  loud  up-lifted  angel  trumpets  blow, 

And  the  cherubic  host  in  thousand  quires 

Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 

With  those  just  spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms. 

Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 

Singing  everlastingly  : 

That  we  on.  Earth  with  undiscording  voice 

May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise ; 

As  once  we  did,  till  disproportion'd  sin 

Jarr'd  against  nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 

Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 

To  their  great  Lord ;  whose  love  their  motion  sway'd 

In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  stood 

In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 

O  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  song, 

And  keep  in  tune  with  Heav'n,  till  God  ere  long 

To  His  celestial  consort  us  unite. 

To  live  with  Ilim,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of  light." 

("Various  readings"  arc  again  interesting  in  line  11, 
"loud  symphony  of  silver  trumpets  blow,"  and  line  18, 
"by  leaving  out  those  harsh,  ill-sounding  [chromatic] 
jars  Of  clamorous  sin  that  all  our  music  mars.") 

A  curious  musical  interpretation  of  the  connection  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth,  sin,  man  and  eternal  life,  is  evi- 
dent in  these  lines.  The  inhabitants  of  Heaven  are  per- 
fect in  their  music,  which  continues  everlastingly  in  praise 
of  the  Creator,  whereas  the  inhabitants  of  earth  are  out 
of  tune  and  unable  to  comprehend  the  higher  music.  Evi- 
dently there  was  harmony  between  heaven  and  earth  be- 
fore "disproportion'd  sin  jarr'd  against  ISTature's  chime" 
and  caused  eternal  discord.  (According  to  the  myth,  the 
music  of  the  spheres  was  always  beyond  the  reach  of 
human  ears.  This  Christian  conception  is  infinitely  more 
reasonable  and  interesting.)  The  use  of  the  word  "dia- 
pason"  is  important.     It  is  the  medifcval  term  for  the 


66  SIGMUND   GOTTFEIED   SPAETH. 

interval  of  the  octave,  and  it  is  only  natural  to  suppose 
that  Milton  had  in  mind  a  harmony  in  which  the  earth 
was  tuned,  as  it  were,  an  octave  lower  than  heaven,  thus 
singing  in  perfect  accord  with  the  "celestial  consort"  (in 
this  case  used  in  the  sense  of  "band,  orchestra.")  The 
prayer  of  the  closing  lines  is  naturally  to  the  effect  that 
humanity  may  at  some  time  return  to  that  primitive  state 
of  harmony  when  all  the  universe  joined  in  one  great  song 
to  the  Creator.  A  hint  as  to  the  nature  of  this  instinctive 
harmony,  before  the  days  of  sin,  may  be  found  in  the 
description  of  the  orisons  of  Adam  and  Eve  (P.  L.  V,  144- 
152.) 

"Lowly  they  bow'd  adoring,  aud  began 

Tbeir  orisons,  each  morning  duly  paid 

lu  various  style,  for  neither  various  style 

Nor  holy  rapture  wanted  they  to  praise 

Their  Maker,  in  fit  strains  pronounc't  or  sung 

Unmeditated,  such  prompt  eloquence 

Flow'd  from  tbeir  lips,  in  prose  or  numerous  verse, 

]More  tuneable  than  needed  lute  or  harp 

To  add  more  sweetness." 

A  passage  in  the  "Arcades"  (62-73)  gives  the  most  con- 
cise account  of  Milton's  conception  of  sphere-music. 

"Then  listen  I 

To  the  eelcstial  Sirens'  harmony. 

That  sit  upon  the  nine  infolded  Spheres, 

And  sing  to  those  that  bold  the  vital  shears 

And  turn  the  adamantine  spindle  I'ound, 

On  which  the  fate  of  gods  and  men  is  wound. 

Such  sweet  compulsion  doth  in  music  lie, 

To  lull  the  daughters  of  Necessity, 

And  keep  unsteady  Nature  to  her  law. 

And  the  low  world  in  measured  motion  draw 

After  the  heavenly  tune,  which  none  can  hear 

Of  human  mould  with  gross  uupurged  ear." 


ON  Milton's  knowledge  of  music.  67 

The  uniformity  of  conception  in  these  passages  is  really 
remarkable.  I  may  include  also  some  lines  from  the  elegy 
"Ad  Patreni"  (34-43,  Cow  per' s  Translation). 

"We,  too,  ourselves,  what  time  we  seek  again 
Onr  native  slvies,  and  one  eternal  now 
Sliall  be  the  only  measure  of  our  being, 
Crowned  all  with  gold,  and  chaunting  to  the  lyre 
Harmonious  verse,  shall  range  the  courts  above. 
And  make  the  starry  firmament  resound ; 
And,  even  now,  the  fiery  spirit  pure 
That  wheels  you  circling  orbs,  directs,  himself, 
Their  mazy  dance  with  melody  of  verse 
Unutterable,  immortal." 

It  becomes  evident  from  the  citations  above,  that  ^fil- 
ton's  musical  references  may  be  roughly  divided  into 
three  great  classes,  which  I  shall  call  the  technical,  the 
conventional  (or  historical)  and  the  idealistic.  The  first 
is  in  many  ways  the  most  important,  for  without  the 
technical  knowledge  as  a  foundation  it  is  doubtful  whether 
the  ideal  treatment  could  exist.  To  the  second  class  belong 
all  historical  references,  and  that  multitude  of  allusions 
which  are  inspired  by  the  ^conventional  usages  of  mythol- 
ogy. Often  it  is  almost  impossible  to  distinguish  between 
the  musical  reference  introduced  for  its  own  sake,  and 
the  necessary  insertion  of  some  musical  term  in  a  con- 
ventional description.  Classification  is,  accordingly,  ex- 
tremely difficult,  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  in  a  nuijority 
of  cases  the  music  and  not  the  mythology  was  uppermost 
in  Milton's  mind.  Finally  we  have  the  idealistic  class  of 
references,  without  which  Milton's  music  would  l)e  dry 
and  uninterestinc;  to  all  but  technical  scholars.  With 
his  mystic  idealization,  his  deep-seated  theory  of  universal 
harmony,  music  takes  on  ncAV  life.  Its  subtle  force  is 
applied  in  all  directions.     It  breathes  through  the  sounds 


68  SIGMUND  GOTTFRIED  SPAETH. 

of  Nature,  winds  whisper  it,  waves  echo  it,  it  reappears 
in  the  song  of  birds.  It  holds  the  universe  together  and 
it  is  essential  to  the  existence  of  an  ideal  Heaven.  It  is 
no  exaggeration  to  say  that,  in  spite  of  the  multitude  of 
technical  references,  at  the  existence  of  which  these  scat- 
tered notes  have  merely  hinted,  in  spite  of  the  many  inter- 
esting echoes  of  musical  mythology  and  of  musical  history, 
the  subject  could  not  possibly  be  a  living  one  to  the  stu- 
dent of  Milton,  w^ere  it  not  for  the  insight  which  it  gives 
into  the  mystical  temperament  of  the  poet, — the  tempera- 
ment which  rejoiced  in  a  sacred  veneration,  a  glorification, 
an  idealization  of  the  art  of  music.  It  is  summed  up  in 
the  beautiful  lines  which  mark  the  climax  of  ^'L' Allegro" 
(135-144): 

"And  ever  against  eating  cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs, 

Married  to  immortal  verse  ; 

Suc-li  as  tlie  meeting  soul  may  pierce, 

In  notes  witli  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  liulced  sweetness  long  drawn  out ; 

With  wanton  heed,  and  giddy  cunning, 

Tlae  melting  voice  through  mazes  running ; 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony." 


GEORGE   HERBERT:   AN   INTERPRETATIOK 


By  Walter  S.  Hinchman^  A.M. 


GEOEGE  IIEP.EERT:   AN  UsTTERPE^ETATTOX 

I.     The  Place. 

"Delay,  llioy  say,  I)Pi;cttet!i  jioril ;  l)ut  it  is  rallior  tliis  iieli  of 
doing  iliat  iiiidoos  men." — ( Sterciison,  "JUark  Arroir") 

Everv  sniiiiner  a  few  visit  \\\\\\  knowledge  and  deep 
regard  the  last  earthly  home  of  George  Herbert;  many 
others  stop  at  Bemertoii  because  they  have  a  vagne 
remembrance  of  a  poet  clergyman  wlio  sometime  li^ed  and 
died  there.  Both  these  classes,  hov/over,  are  far  ontnnm- 
bered  by  those  who  fly  head-in-air  past  the  little  Wiltshire 
parish.  Yet  those  who  make  little  visits  to  the  verse  of 
Herbert,  or  to  Bemerton — ami  in  n-nlh  those  who  know 
them  never  think  of  the  one  withdnl  the  other — feel  them- 
selves ever  richly  rewarded. 

If,  then,  yon  have  nnhorsed  aira  rura,  and  have  no 
longer  fear  of  "the  perils  of  delay,"  yon  will  be  able  to 
linger  qnietly  in  Salisbnry,  with  the  prospect  of  mornings 
and  evenings — and,  let  ns  hope,  a  Snnday — ahead.  Salis- 
bury is  the  Cathedral :  for  though  you  make  the  town 
your  headquarters  for  excursions  to  Old  Sarum  and 
Stonehenge  and  Wilton — and,  this  time,  Bemerton — the 
object  you  see  first  from  the  train,  the  point  tliat  catches 
your  eye  when  far  off  on  Sarum  Plain,  or  the  old  road  to 
Wilton,  is  the  spire  of  the  Cathedral;  the  first  thing  you 
go  to  see  in  Salisbury  is  the  Cathedral;  and  in  the  long 
English  twilights  you  wander  about  the  "close" — perhaps 
the  finest  in  all  England — or  read  a  ]>it  of  Sidney  or 
Herbert  under  the  old  tall  trees,  until  the  grayiiess  draws 
on,  and  only  the  s|)ire,  dark  against  the  sky,  is  still  distinct. 
Then  you  need  neither  to  read  nor  to  wander ;  you   are 

(71) 


72  WALTER  S.    IIINCHMAN. 

at  peace  and  joining  in  the  great  silent  service  of  God's 
temple.  That  is  the  influence  of  Salisbury,  and  that  is 
the  simple  charm  of  the  Cathedral.  Of  course  you  will 
stud}^  the  interior,  note  the  perfect  example  of  "early 
English"  architecture,  admire  the  tomb  of  that  fine  old 
Crusader,  AYilliam  Longsword,  learn  the  history  of  the 
so-called  Boy-Bishop,  loiter  in  the  beautiful  cloisters,  and 
condemn  the  ruthless  restorations  of  Wyatt ;  and  on  Sun- 
day you  will  enjoy  the  simple  dignity  of  the  service  in  an 
old  graysided  English  Cathedral.  But  if  you  have  not 
been  alone  in  silent  service  under  the  tall  trees,  at  the 
time  when  English  evening  is  at  its  loveliest,  and  if  you 
do  not  go  home  to  bed  with  a  gentle  hymn  at  your  heart, 
you  will  not  know  Salisbury  or  the  Cathedral  there. 

With  such  an  evening  behind  you,  you  may  wander 
the  next  afternoon  out  on  the  old  Wilton  road,  shaded  by 
arching  elms  which  in  their  day  have  perhaps  looked  upon 
the  proud  charger  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  as  he  rode  to 
Pembroke  Castle.  About  a  mile  and  a  half  on  the  way, 
you  will  find  a  turning  to  the  left,  running  between  high 
hedges  down  to  the  village  of  Bemerton.  If  you  ask  the 
passer-by  to  point  out  the  village  church,  he  will  show  you 
a  large  new  edifice  on  the  hill  towards  Wilton,  and  if 
you  should  ask  him  of  George  Herbert,  he  would  probably 
look  as  if  he  did  not  speak  the  language.  But  if  you 
keep  to  the  left  for  about  one  hundred  yards,  you  ^\dll 
find,  at  a  fork  in  the  road,  a  little  ivy-hidden  chapel  behind 
a  wall  of  climbing  roses.  In  this  little  building,  which 
can  scarce  seat  fifty  people,  are  the  simple  letters  "G.  H.," 
cut  in  the  stone  on  the  left  side  of  the  chancel,  and  under- 
neath, "1632."  One  or  two  things  in  the  church  are 
interesting,  especially  the  porch  and  the  little  window 
behind  tlie  reading-desk.      The  building  dates  perliaps  two 


GEORGE    HERBERT:    AN    INTERPRETATION.  73 

centuries  before  Herbert,  but  Wyatt  has  been  here  as  well 
as  at  Salisbury,  so  the  whole  east  end  is  a  result  of  his 
"itch  of  doing." 

Outside  the  church,  the  little  graveyard  should  not  be 
hastily  passed  by;  not  tliat  it  is  interesting  as  a  graveyard, 
but  lying  as  it  does  about  the  old  church,  holding  as  it  does 
the  bones  of  those  who  link  you  through  the  centuries  to 
the  poet  clergyman,  it  is  perhaps  the  best  j^lace  to  drink 
in  the  quiet  loveliness  th.at  is  Bemerton,  that  is  George 
Herbert.  By  this  time  the  sun  will  be  low  in  the  west — 
striking  long  yellow  shafts  through  the  tall  trees.  There 
is  no  sound  but  that  of  the  wind,  soft  in  the  highest  tops, 
the  distant  call  of  a  rook,  black  across  the  light,  or  the 
sharp  note  of  the  swifts,  out  for  the  evening  insects.  A 
proud  robin  hops  before  you,  as  if  he  had  done  a  good 
day's  work,  and  were  out  in  his  "Sunday  best"  for  a 
promenade.  Then  hark !  those  are  the  bells  of  Salisbury 
Cathedra],  and  if  you  turn  you  will  see  its  tall  spire  over  a 
house  and  a  hill  of  golden  grain,  bright  in  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun — the  same  spire  that  George  Herbert  saw 
through  the  summer  evenings,  the  same  bells  that  perhaps 
called  him  from  meditation  by  the  very  grave  where  you 
are  standing. 

And  so,  as  the  long  twilight  draws  almost  imperceptibly 
on,  you  stroll  along,  past  green  places  by  running  waters, 
to  Wilton.  You  will  carry  with  you,  too,  the  spirit  of 
gentleness  and  loveliness  of  Bemerton — the  delight  in  tall 
trees  and  green  grass  and  dark  running  waters  and  an 
old  world  chapel — the  spirit  of  the  beauty  and  gentleness 
of  George  Herbert.  And  if  you  are  up  betimes  the  next 
morning,  you  will  liear  the  lark  against  the  morn,  and 
see  the  dew  on  the  rose,  and  feel  the  wonder  of  an  English 
lane. 


74  WALTER  S.    HINCHMAN. 

What,  after  all,  is  significant  in  these  things?  Why 
should  one  speak  of  the  Cathedral  spire,  the  evening  under 
the  trees,  the  old  road  to  Wilton,  the  graveyard,  and  the 
robin  on  the  grass  ?  Did  you  never  look  over  a  bridge  at 
running  water?  And  as  you  looked,  did  your  thoughts 
never  flow  with  the  leaf  in  the  current,  over  bright  shallows 
and  in  dark  eddies,  on  past  village  and  town  to  the  sea  ? 
Well,  as  you  lie  along  the  banks  of  the  full,  fresh-flowing 
ISTadder,  a  "strange  mysterious  dream  of  lively  portrai- 
ture" will  "wave  at  his  wings"  before  your  eyes,  and 
Salisbury  and  Bemerton  and  Wilton  will  suggest  these 
things — the  distant  spire,  and  the  little  church  by  the 
graveyard,  and  the  tall  trees — and  ever  the  hymn  at  the 
heart. 

You,  however,  are  only  a  passer-by.  You  may  drink 
never  so  deep  of  this  spirit,  you  are,  nevertheless,  off  in 
a  few  days  for  London  and  its  proud  sights.  But  that 
lark  you  heard  in  the  dawning — it  lives  in  this  spirit,  it 
rises  every  morning  to  all  this  glory,  it  knows  well  the 
Cathedral  spire,  it  has  ever  the  hymn  at  the  heart.  And 
so  in  the  days  of  King  Charles,  when  London's  tumult 
of  modern  machinery  was  supplied  by  the  clash  of  arms, 
and  by  visits  to  the  Tower  that  cost  far  more  than  your 
sixpence,  there  lived  a  gentle  soul,  George  Herbert,  who, 
like  the  lark,  took  inspiration  from  tliis  spire,  from  these 
trees  and  meadows  and  waters.  If  you  think  of  Bemer- 
ton, it  is  to  think  of  "G.  H.  1G32"  cut  in  the  little  church 
wall,  and  then  you  are  carried  on  again  down  the  stream 
past  village  and  town  to  the  sea. 


george  heebert  :  an  interpretation.  t5 

11.     The  Man. 

"Only  a  sweete  and  vertuous  soul, 
Like  season'd  timber,  never  gives." 

(George   Herbert,   "Temple.") 

The  note  of  the  Wiltshire  landscape  is  the  chief  note 
in  the  life  and  verse  of  George  Herbert,  True,  a  propor- 
tionately short  period  of  his  life  was  spent  at  Bemerton, 
but  his  early  years  prepared  him  peculiarly  for  his  final 
earthly  home — as  did  the  Wiltshire  parish  for  his  heavenly 
resting  place —  so  that  the  two  years  actually  passed  as 
Rector  of  Bemerton  were  relatively  great  in  significance. 
Born  in  Wales,  educated  at  Cambridge,  government  officer 
in  London — George  Herbert  lacked,  until  he  came  to 
Bemerton,  the  final  chord  that  should  make  the  melody 
of  his  life  complete.  It  was  here  that  his  gentle  spirit 
first  took  an  unwavering  course ;  it  was  here  that  the  song 
of  his  life  first  struck  a  permanent  note.  Wiltshire  ever 
sings  its  song — in  the  shade  of  the  tall  trees,  in  the  glad 
sunlit  downs,  in  the  melody  of  the  flowing  waters,  in  the 
skyward  pointing  spire — sings  it,  too,  in  the  life  and 
verse  of  George  Herbert. 

George  Herbert,  the  fifth  son  of  Richard  Herbert  and 
Magdalen  Newport,  and  brother  of  Edward,  Baron  Her- 
bert of  Cherbury,  was  born  on  the  3d  of  April,  1593 — in 
the  family  castle  of  Montgomery,  Wales.  His  mother 
seems  to  have  had  a  strong  and  beautiful  influence  over 
her  sons;  for  after  the  father's  death  in  1507,  she  gave 
herself  up,  says  Grosart  in  his  memorial-introduction  to 
Herbert's  Poetical  Works,  "with  a  fine  enthusiasm  of  con- 
secration to  the  training  and  general  education  of  luu- 
fatherless  family,  in  their  castled  home  and  at  Oxford." 
This  affection  had  such  a  lasting  influence  that  up  to  her 
death    in    1627,    George    always    consulted    her    wishes. 


76  WALTER  S.    HINCHMAN. 

About  his  twelfth  year — just  after  King  James  had 
ascended  the  throne — George  was  sent  to  Westminster 
school,  his  family  having  meanwhile  moved  to  Oxford. 
In  his  fifteenth  year  he  was  elected  King's  scholar  for 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  Both  at  school  and  at 
college  he  speedily  made  a  name  for  himself  by  his 
scholarship,  oratory,  and  Latin  verses.  In  1616,  he 
received  the  degree  of  A.M.,  and  the  following  year 
became  "sublector  quartae  classis."  In  1019,  he  was 
made  public  orator — the  sinecure,  says  Isaac  Walton,  "that 
Queen  Elizabeth  had  formerly  given  to  her  favorite.  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  and  valued  to  be  worth  an  hundred  and 
twenty  j)ounds."  His  chief  duty  Avas  to  write  letters  to 
the  government.  This  office  brought  George  Herbert  in 
contact  with  the  court,  and  with  many  prominent  men, 
among  whom  may  be  numbered  Btiooix,  Lennox',  Ilichmond, 
Hamilton,  and  Pembroke.  That  this  acquaintance  was 
more  than  official  is  attested  by  the  later  liberality  of  the 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  in  rebuilding  Lay  ton  Church,  and  by 
"the  affectionate  dedication  by  Bacon  to  him  of  his 
versification  of  certain  Psalms."  Soon  after  the  death 
of  James,  however,  the  Buckingham-Charles  policy,  sick- 
ness, and  religious  reflections  caused  Herbert  to  resign  his 
position,  and  "betake  himself  to  a  retreat  from  London  to  a 
friend  in  Kent,  where  he  lived  very  privately,  and  was 
such  a  lover  of  solitariness  as  was  judged  to  impair  his 
health  more  than  his  study  had  done."  "In  this  time  of 
retirement,"  continues  Walton,  "lie  had  many  conflicts 
with  himself,  whetlier  he  should  rotiii-n  to  tlie  painted 
pleasures  of  a  court  life,  or  betake  himself  to  a  study  of 
divinit}',  and  enter  into  sacred  orders,  to  which  his  dear 
mother  had  often  persuaded  liim.  These  were  such  con- 
flicts as  thev  onlv  can  Imow  that  have  endured  them;  for 


GEOKGE    HERBERT  :   AN    INTERPRETATION.  YY 

ambitious  desires  and  the  outward  glory  of  the  world  are 
not  easily  laid  aside;  but  at  last  God  inclined  him  to 
put  on  a  resolution  to  serve  at  His  Altar." 

This  conflict  is  an  important  point  in  George  Herbert's 
life ;  for  "the  resolution  to  serve  at  His  Altar"  was  not 
made  without  a  struggle.  It  was  indeed  a  resolution,,  not 
the  passive  submissiveness  of  unearned  piety.  Witness 
''The  Collar/'  one  of  Herbert's  best  poems ;  in  it  are  both 
the  struggle  and  the  resolution — the  beautiful  answer  that 
such  a  nature  as  his  could  at  last  gladly  give : — 


"I  struck  the  board  and  cry'd,  'No  more;   I  will  abroad.' 
What!      Shall   I  ever  sigh   and  pine? 
My  lines  and  life  are  free,  free  as  the  road, 
Loose  as  the  winds,  as  large  as  store. 

Shall  I  be  still  in  suit? 
Have  I  no  harvest  but  a  thorn 
To  let  me  bloud,   and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordiall  fruit? 

Sure  there  was  wine 
Before  my  sighs  did  drie  it;  there  was  corn 
Before  my  tears  did  drown  it; 
Is  the  yeare  onely  lost  to  me? 
Have  I  no  bayes  to  crown  it  ? 

No    flowers,    no    garlands    gay?     All    blasted,    all    wasted? 
Not   so,    my   heart;    but   there    is    fruit, 

And  thou  hast  hands. 

******** 

But  as  I  raved  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wild 

At  every  word, 
Mcthought  I  heard  one  calling,  'Childe;' 

And  I  reply'd,  'My  Lord.'" 

The  last  six  years,  then,  from  his  thirty-fourth  year  to 
his  fortieth,  were  the  period  spent  in  the  church.  In 
1626,  Herbert  was  made  Prebend  of  Layton  Ecclesia,  in 
the  Diocese  of  Lincoln ;  which,  with  the  help  of  London 
friends,  he  recovered  from  a  dilapidated  condition.  In 
1629,  "he  was  seized  with  a  sharp  quotidian  ague,"  the 


78  WALTER  S.    IIINCHMAN. 

effects  of  which  never  left  him,  ''for  he  brought  upon  him- 
self a  disposition  to  rheums  and  other  weaknesses,  and  a 
supposed  consumption."  He  seems  to  have  recovered  suf- 
ficiently, hoAvever,  to  marry  rather  suddenly  Jane  Danvers. 
The  romantic  story  told  by  quaint  Isaac  Walton — though 
highly  improbable — is  well  worth  while.  It  seems  that 
Mr.  Charles  Danvers  entertained  so  high  an  esteem  for 
George  Herbert  ''that  he  often  and  publicly  declared  a 
desire  that  Mr.  Herbert  would  marry  any  one  of  his  nine 
daughters — for  he  had  so  many — but  rather  his  daughter 
Jane  than  any  other,  because  Jane  was  his  beloved 
daughter."  Mr.  Danvers,  in  short,  "so  much  commended 
Mr.  Herbert  to  her,  that  Jane  became  so  much  a  platonic 
as  to  fall  in  love  with  Mr.  Herbert  unseen.  This  was  a 
fair  preparation  for  marriage;  but,  alas!  her  father  died 
before  Mr.  Herbert's  retirement  to  Dauntsey;^  yet  some 
friends  to  both  parties  procured  their  meeting;  at  which 
time  a  mutual  affection  entered  into  both  their  hearts,  as 
a  conqueror  enters  into  a  surprised  city;  and  love,  having 
got  such  possession,  governed,  and  made  there  such  laws 
and  resolutions  as  neither  party  was  able  to  resist;  inso- 
much, that  she  changed  her  name  into  Herbert  the  third 
day  after  this  first  interview."  Considering  that  Charles 
Danvers'  "profound  esteem"  was  the  result  of  "long  and 
familiar  knowledge  of  Mr.  Herbert"  and  that  Sir  John 
Danvers,  a  near  relative,  had  been  for  sixteen  years  the 
second  husband  of  George  Herbert's  mother,  it  is  improb- 
able that  Jane  and  George  had  not  met  frequently  before — 
but  no  matter ! 

On  April  26,  1630,  Dr.  Davenant,  Bishop  of  Salisbury, 
"inducted"  George  Herbert  into  the  parsonage  of  Bemer- 

^ Herbert  retired  to  Dauntsey  in  Wiltshire    (where  Mr.  Danvers 
lived)  to  recover  from  his  consumption. 


GEORGE    HERBERT  :    AN    INTERPRETATION.  79 

ton.  As  the  biographer  Grosart  has  well  said:  ''It  were 
to  violate  the  sanctities  of  reverence  to  retell  the  story  of 
the  'ministry'  at  Bemerton  and  its  all  too  premature  close" 
— "an  almost  incredible  story,"  says  Isaac  Walton,  "of 
the  great  sanctity  of  the  short  remainder  of  his  holy  life: 
a  life  so  full  of  charity,  humility,  and  all  Christian  virtues 
that  it  deserves  the  eloquence  of  St.  Chrysostom  to  com- 
mend and  declare  it."  Here,  beloved  of  all,  he  went  his 
daily  round,  filling  two  short  years  "full  of  charity, 
humility,  and  all  Christian  virtues."  It  is  said  that  "some 
of  the  meaner  sort  of  his  parish  did  so  love  and  reverence 
Mr.  Herbert,  that  they  would  let  their  plough  rest  when 
Mr.  Herbert's  Saint's-bell  rang  to  prayers,  that  they  might 
also  offer  their  devotions  to  God  with  him;  and  would 
then  return  back  to  their  plough." 

But  the  end  soon  came.  "The  sharp  sword  of  the  ever 
active  spirit  wore  out  its  fragile  sheath,  the  body."  On 
the  3d  of  March,  1633  (o.  s.),  George  Herbert  was  bur- 
ied in  Bemerton  Church.  There  you  may  read  "G.  H. 
1632"  scratched  on  the  northern  wall.  Walton  tells 
touchingly  the  story  of  his  death:  "He  called  for  one  of 
his  instruments,  took  it  into  his  hand,  and  said, 

'My   God,   my  God, 

My  musick   shall   find   Thee 

And  every  string 
Shall  have  His  attribute  to  sing 


o » 


and  having  tuned  it,  he  played  and  sung: 

'The  Sundaies  of  man's  life, 
Thredded  together  on  Time's   string. 
Make  bracelets  to  adorn  the  wife 
Of   the   eternall   glorious   King: 
On  Sunday,  Heaven's  dore  stands  ope, 
Blessings  are  plentiful!  and  rife 

More  plentiful!  than  hope.' 


.-  ,iJ 


80  WALTER  S.    lUJMCliMAN. 

Thus  lie  saug  on  earth  such  hymns  and  anthems  as  the 
angels  and  he  and  Mr.  Farrer  now  sing  in  heaven."  "He 
not  merely  ivalhed  down  'the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death/  says  Grosart — knowing  no  'fear'  and  making  no 
'haste'-^but  sang."  Just  before  his  death,  he  consigned 
his  unprinted  verses,  "The  Temple,"  to  Mr,  Duncon,  to 
be  delivered  to  his  "dear  brother  Farrer."  "Desire  him 
to  read  it,"  he  said,  "and  then,  if  he  can  think  it  may 
turn  to  the  advantage  of  any  dejected,  poor  soul,  let  it 
be  nuule  public ;  if  not,  let  him  burn  it ;  for  I  and  it  are 
less  than  the  least  of  God's  mercies." 

Brother  Farrer  had  the  good  sense  to  make  public  the 
verses.  They  are  inseparably  linked  with  Bemerton  and 
George  Herbert ;  they  are  the  expression  of  the  man  when 
his  life  was  attuned  to  the  spirit  of  the  place.  Let  us, 
then,  sit  down  for  a  few  moments  under  the  "immemorial 
elms,"  with  the  Nadder  whispering  at  the  bend,  and  glance 
at  some  of  these  old  religious  lyrics,  with  their  quaint 
seventeenth  century  conceits,  tlieir  flashes  of  spontaneity, 
their  strong  individual  note — their  melody  of  the  waters 
of  Wiltshire. 

Professor  Palmer,  in  Ids  recent  careful  analysis  of 
Herbert's  verse,  has  given  a  thorough  survey  of  the 
religious  lyric  in  the  l7th  century.  Perhaps  a  word, 
however — for  the  sake  of  continuity — is  justifiable. 
The  lyrics  of  the  century  are  famous ;  were  one  to 
mention  only  the  rulers  of  verse — Shakespeare,  Jonson, 
Milton,  Herrick — proof  would  be  complete.  Outside  of 
the  better  known  poets,  however,  there  were  countless 
lyricists  of  varying  merit ;  in  fact,  the  English  lyric 
has  never  flourished  so  luxuriantly  as  in  the  seventeenth 
century.  The  breadth  of  imagination,  the  spontaneity 
and  originality  of  thought,  the  unerring  felicity  of  phrase 


GEORGE     HERBERT:    AlX     INTERPEETATIOX.  81 

whieJi  had  cliaracterizod  tlie  Elizabethans  were  not  quite 
banished,  but  rather  imprisoned  by  the  conscious  art, 
the  perfected  form  of  the  Jacobeans.  The  consequence 
was  lyrics  of  every  conceivable  form  with  spontaneity  as 
well  as  with  finesse — lyrics  strangled  rudely  in  their  prime 
by  Puritanism. 

The  poems  of  the  period,  moreover,  fall,  roughly 
speaking,  into  two  convenient  classes — religious  and  so- 
called  cavalier.  Milton's  life  shows  that  it  is  indeed  diffi- 
cult to  make  this  distinction  rigid,  that  a  Puritan  could 
be  either  Churchman  or  Dissenter,  that  a  man  could  write 
verse  which  evinced  a  love  for  ecclesiastical  pomp  and  yet, 
politically,  be  strong  for  Parliament.  It  is  fair  to  say, 
however,  that  lyric  poets,  with  a  few  exceptions,  tended 
to  confine  themselves  to  one  class  or  other,  so  that  by  the 
outbreak  of  war — 1642 — almost  no  writer  of  lyrics  dealt 
with  both  kinds,  religious  and  cavalier.  Those  who  did 
invariably  felt  uncomfortable  in  the  imaccustomed  attire. 
It  must  1)6  admitted,  for  instance,  that  Herrick  was  in 
spirit  a  cavalier  poet,  that  'the  more  pagan  the  better'  is 
strikingly  true  of  him,  and  that  when  he  prayed  the  Lord 
in  his  "Noble  lumbers"  that  his  hen  mioht  meet  with 
daily  success  in  egg-laying  he  was  quite  a't  his  worst. 
As  a  clergyman,  he  felt  the  necessity  of  writing  something 
religious;  there  was  a  growing  gulf  between  that  and 
cavalier — so  he  climbed  dow^n  from  his  Pegasus,  and, 
forgetting  that  he  must  mount  a  spiritual  steed,  vfrote 
standing  right  in  his  barnyard.  Milton  frankly  took  to 
prose.  It  was  among  such  poetical  possibilities  that  Herbert 
wrote.  Yet,  before  him,  few  had  been  able  to  write 
religious  verse  quite  freed  from  the  trappings  of  sexual 
passion.  In  this  sense  he  was  one  of  the  first  to  write 
completely  religious  lyrics,  a  form  of  verse  which  has 
become  so  well  known  to-day. 
6 


S2  WALTER  S.    IlINCHMAN. 

The  bearing  of  Herbert's  education  and  environment 
on  his  lyrical  impulses  was  im^iortant.  Both  had  their 
tap-root  in  the  church,  though  superficial  roots  may 
have  fed  on  a  soil  of  gay  cavalier  pageantry.  But  this 
soil  must  have  been  very  superficial ;  what  of  worldly 
picturesqueness  he  did  sec — at  least  by  the  time  he  began 
to  write  his  verses — went  down  before  him  as  "vain 
pleasures;"  the  spirit  of  "boot,  saddle,  to  horse 
and  away"  was  the  antithesis  of  this  gentle  soul. 
His  gentleness,  moreover,  was  backed  up  by  resolutions 
and  quaintly  conscious  art,  in  support  of  his  Master,  It 
is  most  probable  that  the  fine  sensibilities  of  his  lady 
mother,  together  with  the  rich  sonorous  music  of  the 
church,  left  a  lasting  influence ;  while  the  phase  of  his 
London  environment  which  may  have  burned  most  strongly 
into  his  character — especially  by  virtue  of  his  intimate 
acquaintance  with  court  extravagance — was  the  great 
movement  for  purity  and  simplicity.  All  this  is  the 
more  probable  since  the  mental  attitude  of  a  man  is  half 
the  force  of  what  determines  liis  influences — the  liquid 
metal  is  as  necessary  to  the  mould  as  the  mould  to  the 
liquid  metal. 

Much  of  Herbert's  verse,  it  must  be  admitted,  is  of  a 
not  very  high  order.  In  the  first  place,  he  is  dwarfed  by 
his  contemporaries ;  his  voice  is  small  beside  that  of  "deep- 
chested  Chapman"  or  "firm-footed  Ben."  In  the  second 
place,  the  quaintness  often  renders  it  dull  to  anyone  who 
is  not  particularly  interested  in  seventeenth  century  lyrics. 
There  is,  on  the  other  hand,  much  of  genuine  worth ;  and 
one  finds,  if  one  considers  always  the  man  and  the  place 
together  with  the  verse,  true  touches  that  could  have  come 
from  none  of  the  great  contemporaries.  Everywhere  is 
met  the  gentle  soul,  "full  of  all  Christian  virtues,"  regard- 


GEORGE    IIEEBEKT:  AN   INTERPKETATION.  83 

ing  with  almost  Puritanic  disfavor  the  gilded  glories  of 
the  court,  speaking  ever  of  the  ''beauty  of  holiness,"  and 
taking  up,  finally,  his  instrument  on  his  deathbed  to  sing 
once  more  a  hymn  of  praise. 

Herbert's  verse  is  indeed  moral — sometimes  unattrac- 
tively so.  The  same  impulse  that  had  led  Milton  to 
"scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days" — the  vanity  and 
frailty  of  mankind — had,  as  we  have  seen,  guided  Herbert 
to  Layton  and  Bemerton.  This  didacticism,  with  its 
Puritanic  touch,  not  infrequently  kills  rudely  the  charm 
of  the  verse ;  for  example : 

"Summe   up  at  night   what  thou  has  clone  by  day, 
And  in  the  morning  what  thou  hast  to  do ; 
Dresse  and  undresse  tliy  suul;    mark  the  decay 
And  growth  of  it;   if  with  thy  watch  that  too 
Be  down;   then   wind  up  both:    since  we  shall   be 
Most  surely  judged,   make  thy   accounts   agree." 

Admirable  advice — but  the  artist  stops  in  the  middle 
of  the  next  to  last  line. 

Herbert   constantly  impresses   one,   however,   with   the 
sanity   of  his   didacticism.     He   clings   to   the   beautiful 
forms  of  the  English  church ;  he  finds  in  the  "via  media" 
room   for   both   mystical   worship   and  moral   instruction.' 
The  poem  on  "Constancie"  expresses  well  this  sanity: 

"Who   is   the   honest   man  ? 
He  that  doth  still  and  strongly  good  pursue, 

Who   rides   liis  sure  and  even  trot. 

While  the  world  now  rides  by,  now  lags  behind." 

The  old  sense  of  honesty  is  preserved  in  these  lines; 
"moderation,"  "sanity"  are  there  too. 

But  if  one  is  wearied  for  a  moment  with  the  didacticism, 
one  soon  forgets  it  for  the  chief  charm  of  the  poems — 
gentleness,  fullness  of  song,  spontaneity  of  thought — after 


84:  WALTER  S.    HINCHMAN. 

all,  the  characteristics  of  the  man.  There  lacks  the 
ingenuous  enthusiasm  of  the  Renaissance,  but  there  is 
wanting,  too,  the  shallow  apotheosis  of  form  of  the  Augus- 
tans.  One  finds,  however — naturally  enough,  too,  if  one 
recalls  the  date — a  suggestion  of  the  imaginativeness  and 
fine  splendour  of  Shakespeare's  England,  the  compact 
thought  of  Jonson's  age,  and  the  skill  in  polishing  to  which 
all  the  lyricists  of  the  time  aspired.  Indeed  this  perfec- 
tion in  trifles  often  breaks  out  in  quaint  conceits.  One 
poem  is  in  the  form  of  an  altar;  another  of  Easter  wings; 
a  third  bears  the  title  "Ana  '(^a^y)    gnram;"  a    fourth  has 

(AriTiy)     o  > 

the  line: 

"Shall  Thy  strokes  he  ray  stroking?" 

— devices    dictatorially    condemned    by    Addison,       The 

studied  art,  however,  does  not  often,  as  in  Quarles,  obscure 

to  modern   eyes,   or,   as   in  Crashaw,   provoke   irrelevant 

mirth.     Beneath   the   extravagant   figures   descriptive   of 

"Prayer,"   for  example,   one   feels   the  final  touch   of  a 

master : 

"Prayer,  the  ehurclie's  banquet,  Angels'  age, 
God's  breath  in  man  returning  to  his  birth, 
The  soul  in  paraphrase,  heart  in  pilgrimage, 
The  Christian  plummet  sounding  heav'n  and  earth; 

Church-bells  beyond  the  stars  heard,  the  soul's  blood, 
The  land  of  spices,  something  understood." 

This  man's  face  was  turned  uj)wards.  In  little  expres- 
sions, running  like  a  glimpse  of  the  fresh  AViltshire  morn- 
ing through  the  poems,  in  lines  like: 

"I  made  a   posie  while  the  day   ran  by" 

— one  catches,  too,  the  note  of  a  "sAveete  singer."  Though 
Ilerl^ert  never  attains  to  the  occasional  felicity — the  "deep- 
sea  stirrings,"  as  Professor  Schelling  puts  it — of  Henry 


GEORGE  HERBERT:  AN   INTERPRETATION.  85 

« 

Vaughan,  yet  he  strikes,  at  his  best,  a  quite  individual  note 
that  is  true  and  of  a  fine  melody — 

"Chase   brave   employment   with   a   naked   sword 
Throughout  the  world.     Fool  not,  for  all  may  have, 
If  they  dare  choose,  a  glorious  life  or  grave." 

This  is  of  a  different  and  higher  order  than  anything 
already  quoted.  jSTo  room  for  conceits  here ;  it  is  truth — 
gleam  of  naked  sword.  An  "Easter  Song"  sums  up  in 
four  of  its  lines  the  main  theme  of  Herbert's  verse  and 
life: 

"I  got  me  flowers  to  straw  Thy  way, 
I  got  nie  boughs  off  many  a  tree; 
But  Thou  wast  up  by  break  of  day, 
And  brought'st  Thy  sweets  along  with  Thee." 

There  is  the  '^life  of  charity,  humility,  and  all  Christian 
virtues ;"  there  is  Bemerton  Church  and  the  evening  light ; 
there  are  the  tall  trees,  the  Cathedral  spire,  and  the  gentle 
hymn  at  the  heart. 


III.     The    Medlar-tree. 

"Those   trees   for   evermore   bear   fruit 
And  evermore  do  spring: 
There  evermore   the  angels   are, 
And  evermore  do   sing." 

"0  Mother  dear,  Jerusalem."     Anon. 

We  have  followed,  then,  George  Herbert  down  to  his 
little  parish  of  Bemerton,  and  we  have  lingered  under  the 
old  elms  long  enough  to  catch  at  least  a  glimpse  of  the  rest 
and  cheerfulness  that  pervades  all.  We  have  looked, 
moreover,  at  a  poem  or  two,  and,  while  we  find  much  that 
is  mediocre  and  some  that  is  bad,  we  are,  nevertheless, 
pleased  with  the  acquaintance;  for,  losing  for  a  moment 
our  stern  and  terrible  faculty  of  criticism,  we  delight  in 


86  WALTER  S.    HINCHMAN. 

the  little  poems,  not  so  mucli  because  tliey  are  good  or 
bad  or  something  else,  but  because  we  delight  in  Bemerton 
and  George  Herbert,  and  we  find  it  hard,  under  these  old 
trees,  to  answer  the  searching  question:  which  is  it  that 
you  really  like — Bemerton,  or  Herbert,  or  his  verse? 
For  hefore  all  is  said  and  done  to  show  this  virtue  or 
that  defect  of  the  poems,  we  must  first  listen  to  the  har- 
mony. That  which  delights  is  the  gentle  spirit  of  love- 
liness pervading  the  three — place,  man,  and  poems;  it  is 
like  the  song  of  the  lark  we  heard  in  the  early  morning; 
it  is  like  the  deep  shadows  and  long  beams  of  light  in  the 
churchyard  at  Bemerton.  You  can  explain  and  criticise  it 
when  you  can  analyze  the  odour  of  the  flower. 

Whether  or  not  George  Herbert  did  the  vigorous  thing 
in  going  to  Bemerton,  in  running  away  from  the  strife, 
suggests    the    contrast    of    the  country     and    the    city. 
At  Bemerton    the    rich    experience    of    sensations    came 
from  the  hills,   the   sunset,    the   light   on   the  Cathedral 
spire;  there,  in  London,  was  the  press  of  mankind,  work- 
ing, loving,  hating,  fighting.     At  Bemerton  one  was  half 
with  man,  half  with  nature;  in  London  was  the  "mighty 
heart,"  throbbing  in  deeds  by  day,  throbbing  in  sleep  by 
night.     Here  the  intercourse  was  spiritual,  gently  intel- 
lectual; there  it  was  of  all  kinds — brutal,  avaricious,  pas- 
sionately emotional  and  intellectual — tlie  white  liglit  of 
intellect !     The  man  in  the  country  has  a  kind  of  religious 
sureness:  the  sky  and  the  stars  and  the  morning  sun  are 
ever  a  sign  and  a  wonder  for  him.  But,  be  it  never  so  deep, 
it   is   a   child-like   sureness — emotional,    not   intellectual. 
What,  on  the  other  hand,  shall  the  man  in  the  city  take 
for    a    sign  ?     Doubt,    discouragement,    pallid    pleasures, 
where  the   "desire  outruns  the  delight" — what  shall  he 
make  of  the  glittering,  tinseled,  pagan  monster?     He  no 


GEORGE  HERBEET  :  AN  INTERPRETATION.  87 

longer  sees  through  a  glass  darkly,  but  now  face  to  face. 
What  shall  he  see  ?     God  or  No-God  ? 

This  is  ever  a  fundamental  contrast.  Shall  your  life 
be  simple  and  sweet  in  the  country;  shall  it  be  scared, 
yet  strong,  in  the  city  ?  ''I  bear  them  and  yet  I  triumph" 
— how  this  word  must  ring  in  the  ears  of  the  man  at 
work  among  men !  And  then  comes  perhaps  the  sound 
of  the  swift-running  water  and  the  light  of  the  sun  on 
the  everlasting  hills — "^O  Paradise,  O  Paradise,  who  doth 
not  crave  for  rest !" — and  the  sin-sick  soul,  George  Herbert 
if  you  like,  goes  back  to  his  w^oods  and  fields  and  sky. 
The  suggestion  of  such  an  action  is  a  tremendous  challenge 
to  vigoroiis  souls  that 

"Dare  look  the  omnipotent  tyrant  in   his  everlasting  face, 
And  tell  him  that  his  evil  is  not  good." 

They  put  the  slug-horn  to  their  lips,  they  sing,  they  whistle, 
they  cry : 

"Speed,  tight  on,  fare  ever  there  as  here!" 

Thus  stood  "Milton,  like  a  seraph  strong." 

To  a  man,  then,  in  1G30,  who,  still  churchman,  felt  a 
need  for  simplicity  and  purity,  there  were  two  courses 
open:  stay  and  fight  for  them,  or  go  seek  them  in  unfre- 
quented places.  That  many  bravely  stayed  is  true.  That 
many,  on  the  other  hand,  perhaps  wisely  avoided  London 
and  the  broil,  is  also  true.  Nicholas  Farrer  had  shut 
himself  up  in  monastic  seclusion,  at  Little  Gidding,  to 
escape  "the  furie  of  Protestantism."  Gentle  Isaak  Wal- 
ton found  enjoyment,  at  this  martial  time,  in  fishing  and 
meditation,  along  the  winding  waterways  of  Wiltshire. 
George  Herbert  would,  no  doubt,  have  floundered  sadly  in 
the  hard  steel  accoutrements  of  that  day — for  the  contest 
was  like  to  be  physical — but  he  could  live  purely  and 


88  WALTER   S.    HINCHMAN. 

kindly  and  sing  sweetly  by  the  banks  of  the  Nadder. 
Something  in  him,  strong  and  restful  as  the  voice  of  the 
Avoods  to  the  hunter,  drew  him  there. 

It  was  not  a  vigorous  step.     Was  it  hence  an  unworthy 
action  ?     Listen  to  his  own  resolutions :    "And  I  now  can 
behold  the  court  with  an  impartial  eye,  and  see  plainly 
that  it  is  made  up  of  fraud  and  titles,  and  flattery,  and 
many  other  such  empty,  imaginary,  and  painted  pleasures ; 
pleasures  that  are  so  empty  as  not  to  satisfy  when  they 
are  enjoyed.     But  in  God,  and  His  service,  is  a  fulness 
of  joy  and  pleasure,  and  no  satiety."     E-xactly !  cries  the 
vigorous  soul,  and  the  true  service  is  in  the  thick  of  the 
fight.     Not  so  for  George  Herbert.     After  all,  the  sin- 
cerity, not  the  conviction,   is  what  counts.     In  London, 
the  church,  with  Laud  already  in  full  charge,  with  anony- 
mous accusation  and  vituperation,  with  extravagance  and 
corruption — an  easy-going  secularism  on   the   one  hand, 
and  a  run-down  Romanism  on  the  other — did  not  exactly 
suggest  restfulness  and  religious  meditation.     The  need- 
less  strife,   the  priests  of  God   soiling  their  robes   with 
political    intrigue,    civil   war   in   the   air — these   were   to 
George   Herbert   a  note   inexpressibly  harsh ;   they   were 
absolute  contradiction  to  his  idea  of  the  "beauty  of  holi- 
ness."    He  did  not  gird  his  buckler  on ;  he  fled  from  the 
wrath  to  come.     And  as  we  look  back  through  nearly  three 
centuries,  and  can  see  a  little  of  right  on  both  sides,  we 
find   much   consolation   in   Herbert's   retreat — we   find   a 
lesson  in  Bemerton  as  well  as  in  London. 

In  his  little  garden  at  Bemerton,  George  Herbert  one 
day  ]ilanted  a  medlar-tree.  That  tree  flourishes  to-day — 
only  a  tree,  to  be  sure,  but  one  more  memorial  to  come 
back  to  mind  when  we  think  of  the  two  letters,  "G.  H.," 
scratched  on  the  church  wall.     It  is  a  memorial,  moreover, 


GEORGE  HERBERT:  AN  INTERPRETATION.  89 

peculiarly  proper  to  Herbert.  He  has  given  long  life, 
in  his  gentleness,  to  a  little  tree,  growing  quietly  out  of  the 
common  bustle  and  noise  of  the  world,  as  he  would  have 
spread  his  gentle  influence  over  his  parish,  as  he  himself, 
in  fact,  lived  in  simple  beneficence.  To  live  simply,  to 
do  our  little  well  and  kindly  is  an  old  and  commonplace 
lesson,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  nevertheless  a  hard  one — per- 
haps much  harder  than  that  of  the  big  work  in  London- 
town,  before  the  eyes  of  the  world.  In  Westminster 
stand  memorials  to  great  men  of  every  age.  As  one  walks 
past  the  spirit  of  Kings  and  councillors,  or  stands  silent 
before  the  "souls  of  poets  dead  and  gone,"  an  awe  for  the 
great  dead  creeps  over  him.  The  lesson  of  Westminster 
is  written  for  all  men  and  is  daily  learned  in  various 
ways  by  the  great  and  the  small.  But  let  us  turn  for  a 
space  to  the  medlar-tree  at  Bemerton.  Does  it  not  teach 
its  lesson,  too  ?  And  do  the  lessons  of  Westminster,  be 
they  never  so  grand,  go  more  deeply  or  truly  to  the  heart  ? 
Does  this  medlar-tree  not  bring  back  the  river  of  thoughts 
with  the  bright  scenes  by  the  way — the  churchyard  with 
its  holy  light,  the  old  tall  trees,  the  birds  and  the  yellow 
grain  on  the  hill,  the  Cathedral  spire,  and  the  gentle  hymn 
at  the  heart  ? 


( 


THE  YOUNGEPt  WORDSWORTH. 


By  Ohart.es  H.  Burr,  A.M. 


THE  YOUNGER  WORDSWOETH. 

There  is  an  almost  universal  disposition  to  adopt  as 
the  common  conception  of  men  great  in  literature  the 
impression  made  by  their  personalities  in  the  closing  years 
of  their  lives.  The  image  of  the  old  Goethe,  serene, 
Olympian,  has  long  overlaid  the  intensely  passionate  youth 
of  the  author  of  "Werther ;"  nor  will  any  ever  know  how 
far  the  accustomed  judgment  of  Keats  as  a  poet  voicing 
only  warm  and  sensuous  youth  is  due  to  his  early  death. 
It  is  the  man  as  it  knew  him  last,  the  world 
rememl)ers.  The  causes  which  bring  this  about  are 
natural.  After  fame  has  come  to  a  man,  it  is  then  that 
his  every  day  words  and  doings  take  on  importance,  and 
impressions  of  personality  are  gained  by  many  among 
whom  in  younger  days  he  would  have  moved  unnoted. 
These  many  then  bequeath  to  the  future  the  impressions 
thus  formed.  It  is  around  a  man's  later  years  that  the 
mass  of  reminiscence,  anecdote  and  recollection  gathers. 

Wordsworth  is  a  marked  example  of  this  tendency,  a 
peculiarly  strong  illustration  of  its  danger  to  the  critic. 
His  detractors  and  admirers  alike  will  recognize  the  fact 
that  the  great  mass  of  his  literary  work  is  not  poetry  at 
all.  The  heavy  verse  which  tills  the  printed  volumes  of 
his  poems  has  held  aloof  innumerable  readers,  and  dulled 
the  enthusiasm  of  all  but  a  small  remnant.  Matthew 
Arnold,  appreciating  this  unfortunate  condition,  endeav- 
ored to  meet  it  by  a  carefully  excised  edition  of  his 
poems.  But  this  is  only  to  provide  a  method  of  temporary 
escape  for  his  admirers.  The  world  will  never  accept  a 
condensation  as  a  man's  real  work.     It  is  a  difficulty  in 

(93) 


94  CHAKLES  H.  BUEK. 

the  way  of  common  enjoyment  of  Wordsworth  which  must 
be  faced  and  overcome.  But  how  ?  By  the  only  possible 
method :  by  complete  understanding  of  the  causes  and  the 
consequent  correct  estimation  of  the  results.  To  explain 
from  the  course  of  Wordsworth's  outward  and  inner  life 
whence  came  the  poetical  impulse  out  of  which  was  created 
his  great  poetical  work,  and  how  and  wherefore  the  mass 
of  valueless  verse  came  from  the  same  man,  is  the  object 
of  this  brief  essay. 

That  Wordsworth  affords  an  illustration  of  the  gen- 
eralization we  have  allowed  ourselves  in  the  opening  para- 
graph, would  seem  apparent ;  still  it  will  be  best  to  consider 
the  facts.  Wordsworth  died  in  1850  at  the  age  of  eighty 
years.  Tor  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  century  fame  had  set 
her  seal  upon  him.  One  cannot  question  the  solemn  depth, 
so  to  speak,  of  Wordsworth's  character,  nor  the  rare  eleva- 
tion of  his  spirit  in  the  later  years  of  his  life ;  and  universal 
respect  and  honor  came  to  him  as  his  rightful  due.  To 
his  home  in  the  late  country  traveled  daily  the  admiring 
and  the  curious.  They  saw  a  man  of  great  personal  dig- 
nity living  a  calm,  simple  life;  but  they  did  not  see  the 
gentleness  and  largeness  of  vicAv,  which  would  seem  to 
belong  of  right  to  the  old  age  of  a  poet.  Emerson,  fresh 
from  the  beginnings  of  that  life-long  friendship  with  Car- 
lyle,  was  ''surprised  by  the  hard  limits  of  his  thought."  "To 
judge  from  a  simple  conversation,"  he  wrote,  "he  made 
the  impression  of  a  narrow  and  very  English  mind."  And 
Harriet  Martineau  recounts  the  lack  of  sensitiveness  with 
which  he  received  her.  These  expressions  w^ere  only  too 
accurate:  Wordsworth  had  become  a  placid  adherent  of 
Church  and  the  established  order  of  things,  a  talkative  old 
man  with  a  mind  firmly  closed  against  the  entrance  of 
new  ideas.     His  own  letters  confirm  the  observation  of 


THE    YOUNGER    WOKDSWOKTII.  95 

his  visitors  beyond  appeal.  Writing  to  an  American 
friend,  he  contentedly  observes :  "The  reception  given  me 
'by  the  Queen  at  her  ball  was  most  gracious.  Mrs. 
'Everettj  the  wife  of  your  minister,  among  many  others, 
'was  a  witness  to  it.  It  moved  her  to  the  shedding  of 
'tears  to  see  a  gray-haired  man  of  seventy-iive  years  of 
'age,  kneeling  down  in  a  large  assembly  to  kiss  the  hand 
'of  a  young  woman."  Of  Shakespere,  he  fatuously 
remarks :  "He  had  serious  defects  and  not  those  only  pro- 
'ceeding  from  carelessness.  For  instance,  in  his  delinea- 
'tions  of  character  he  does  not  assign  as  large  a  place  to 
'religious  sentiment  as  enters  into  the  constitution  of 
'human  nature  under  normal  circumstances.  If  his 
'dramas  had  more  religion  in  them,  they  would  be  truer 
'representations  of  man,  as  well  as  more  elevated,  and  of 
'a  more  searching  interest." 

It  is  not  from  a  man  who  so  thinks  and  feels  that 
great  poetry  comes,  and  many  years  had  indeed  passed 
since  the  period  when  the  diverse  qualities  of  Wordsworth's 
poetic  nature  were  in  harmonious  accord.  True  it  was 
that  year  upon  year  Wordsworth  had  lived  close  to  nature, 
but  now  that  old  age  was  upon  him  the  very  closeness  and 
absorption  of  his  devotion  had  its  perilous  event.  The  old 
Goethe  had  likewise  left  far  behind  him  the  passionate 
emotions  of  youth,  but  he  stands  in  the  pages  of  Eckermann 
the  one  great  critic  of  modern  life.  Largeness  of  view, 
breadth  of  sympathy,  world-wide  reachings  after  knowl- 
edge, glorify  the  old  age  of  Goethe.  But  they  were  not 
given  to  Wordsworth  to  compensate  for  failing  delicacy 
and  keenness  of  vision.  And  indeed,  so  fleetingly  evan- 
escent is  that  rare  union  of  qualities  resulting  in  sensitive- 
ness to  beauty,  openness  to  truth,  which  go  to  make  up  a 
poet's  genius,  that  one  stands  before  the  old  Wordsworth 


96  CHARLES  H.  BURR. 

and  marvels  whence  could  have  come  that  vibrating 
response  of  his  poetry  to  the  speech  of  nature  and  the 
voice  of  humanity.  It  is  not  however  in  the  study  of 
the  old  Wordsworth  that  one  may  come  upon  the  secret. 
Long  ago  it  was  observed  that  none  of  Wordsworth's 
really  valuable  poetry  was  written  before  he  was  twenty- 
eight  years  of  age,  very  little  after  he  was  thirty-eight. 
It  is  the  man  who  then  lived  we  should  seek  to  know  and 
understand. 

Wordsworth's  boyhood  lived  in  the  country  had  been, 
as  he  always  afterwards  pictured  it  "a  time  of  pleasure 
"lying  upon  the  unfolding  intellect  plenteously  as  morn- 
"ing  dew-drops, — of  knowledge  inhaled  insensibly  like  a 
"fragrance, — of  dispositions  stealing  into  the  spirit  like 
"music  from  unknown  quarters."  But  when,  just  before 
his  coming  of  age,  Wordsworth  received  his  degree  from 
Cambridge  University,  he  went  to  London  and  within 
a  few  months  passed  over  into  France.  The  influ- 
ence of  his  relatives  and  friends  had  been  strongly  exerted 
to  induce  him  to  choose  a  vocation,  but  for  over  four 
years  he  lived  as  he  might,  hoping  for  some  chance  escape 
from  the  thraldom  of  regular  work,  until  in  1705  a  legacy 
from  an  admiring  friend  rendered  possible,  with  the  exer- 
cise of  exceeding  frugality,  that  life  given  to  poetry  to 
which  he  had  destined  himself  with  pure  and  unchangeable 
devotion.  In  after  years,  looking  back  upon  these  days 
of  choice,  and  the  disapprobation  he  had  braved,  Words- 
worth paused  to  explain  his  motives,  and  perhaps  in  some 
measure  idealized  them.  "Youth,"  he  said  in  one  of  his 
finest  of  prose  passages,  "has  its  own  wealth  and  inde- 
"pendence ;  it  is  rich  in  health  of  body  and  animal  spirits, . 
"in  its  sensibility  to  the  impressions  of  the  natural  uni- 
"verse,  in  the  conscious  growth  of  knowledge,  in  lively 


a 


THE    YOUNGEK    WORDSWORTH.  97 

"sympathy  and  familiar  commuuion  with  the  generous 
"actions  recorded  in  history,  and  with  the  high  passions 
"of  poetry;  and  above  all,  youth  is  rich  in  the  possession 
of  time,  and  the  accompanying  consciousness  of  freedom 
"and  230wer.  *  *  *  Hence,  in  the  happy  confidence 
"of  his  feelings,  and  in  the  elasticity  of  his  spirit,  neither 
"worldly  ambition,  nor  the  love  of  praise,  nor  dread  of 
"censure,  nor  the  necessity  of  worldly  maintenance,  nor 
"any  of  those  causes  which  tempt  or  compel  the  mind 
"habitually  to  look  out  of  itself  for  support,  *  *  * 
"have  power  to  preside  over  the  choice  of  the  young." 

How  salutary  to  exchange  for  our  memory  of  the  older 
man  this  image  of  AVordsworth  in  the  vitality  of  youth, 
with  its  idealism  and  its  freshness  of  promise ! 

It  was   in   the   early   days   of   the  French   Revolution 

that  Wordsworth  came  to  Paris.     To  the  eye  of  eager 

youth 

"appeared 
"A    glorious    opening,    the    unlooked-for    dawn, 
"That  promised  everlasting  joy  to  France!" 

In  its  inception  an  intellectual  movement,  the  French 
Revolution  had  knit  up  with  its  own  destiny  the  hojx^s  and 
dreams  of  the  young  thought  of  Europe.  All  that  was 
progressive,  all  that  was  ardent,  all  that  was  aspiring  was 
enrolled  under  its  banner. 

"Europe  at  that  time  was  thrilled  with  joy, 
"France  standing  on  the  top  of  golden  hours, 
"And   human    nature   seeming   born   again." 

This  was  the  one  great  modern  a  priori  effort  to  solve  'the 
problems  of  social  and  political  life.  ISTo  one  alive  just 
before  the  beginnings  of  the  Revolution  who  preserved 
his  powers  of  perception  and  clear  thinking  but  felt 
through  and  through  that  the  conditions  of  existence  were 

7 


98  CHAELES  H.  BUBR. 

intolerable  to  the  multitude  throughout  Europe.  And 
above  the  moan  of  pain  had  been  heard  and  still 
echoed  the  voice  of  Kousseau,  reminding  his  hearers  of  a 
time  long  past  of  innocence,  happiness  and  equality; 
urging  a  return  to  nature  and  these  conditions.  It  mat- 
tered not  that  the  ideal  of  Rousseau  and  of  the  Europe 
which  followed  him  never  existed  nor  could  exist,  that  it 
was  an  a  priori  proposition  incapable  of  surviving  dispas- 
sionate examination.  The  intense  and  powerful  influence 
of  Rousseau  was  due  solely  to  the  fact  that  his  time 
demanded  and  welcomed  eagerly  an  ideal  with  which  their 
imagination  might  be  fired  and  to  which  their  s}-mpathies 
might  respond.  Much  was  promised,  and  fed  upon  rash 
hopes,  all  that  was  best  and  aspiring  rushed  blindly 
onward,  till  there  came  the  Reign  of  Terror  and  the  still 
more  disillusioning  years  which  succeeded. 

The  mind  and  heart  of  the  young  Wordsworth  in  Paris 
went  wholly  with  this  movement.  "Bliss  was  it  that 
dawTi  to  be  alive,"  he  exclaimed,  "but  to  be  young  was 
heaven!"  He  remained  over  a  year  in  France,  coming 
into  vital  contact  with  the  forces  there  at  work,  and  when 
he  returned  unwillingly  to  England  in  December,  1792, 
he  had  made  the  cause  of  the  Revolution,  as  he  conceived 
it,  his  own. 

In  the  lives  of  most  men  of  genius  there  has  early  come 
the  longing  for  experience,  the  longing  to  handle  and  taste 
life  for  themselves  in  all  its  possibilities  of  intensity, 
whether  of  pain  or  of  joy.  Genius  in  men  of  emotion 
seems  to  involve  the  capacity,  the  necessity  of  passionate 
sensation.  To  feel,  has  been  the  cry  of  their  youth;  to 
know,  the  desire  of  their  mature  manhood.  And  as  poetry 
is  above  all  a  matter  of  emotion,  so  have  the  world's  greatest 
poets  most  passionately  suffered,  most  intensely  lived.    For 


THE    YOUNGER    WORDSWOETH.  99 

thirteen  months  Wordsworth  felt  and  lived,  for  the  balance 
of  eighty  years  he  thought  and  reflected.  In  the  signifi- 
cance of  this  fact  lies  the  key  to  the  understanding  of 
Wordsworth  and  of  his  poetry. 

The  deposition  of  the  King  and  the  September  massacres 
had  not  served  to  weaken  Wordsworth's  faith,  but  on  his 
return  he  found  it  otherwise  in  England.  Many  at  first 
had  sympathized  excitedly  and  loudly,  but  by  the  end 
of  1792  the  excesses  of  the  Revolution  and  its  threat  to 
vested  interests  had  roused  a  strong  and  general  reaction. 
Wordsworth  burned  to  throw  his  whole  force  against  the 
current.  His  long  letter  to  the  Bishop  of  Landaff  signed 
"A  Republican"  glows  with  white  heat  of  indignation 
against  monarchy  and  "the  baleful  influence  of  aristocracy 
and  nobility  upon  happiness  and  virtue."  Lacking  a  pub- 
lisher and  a  hearing,  Wordsworth  was  thrown  back  upon 
himself,  and  passed  through  days  and  years  of  almost  mor- 
bid dejection,  out  of  wdiich  came  "The  Borderers"  and 
"Guilt  and  Sorrow,"  early  and  valueless  poems.  He  had 
seen  his  bright  dreams  for  the  quick  advance  of  humanity 
shattered ;  and,  more  than  this,  his  healthy  mind 
had  come  to  perceive  the  hollowness  of  the  ideas  on  which 
he  had  builded,  the  falsity  of  the  theories  he  had  grasped 
as  revelations.  The  emotion  and  high  idealism  with  which 
his  young  imagination  had  touched  the  Revolution  van- 
ished before  the  attack  of  France  upon  Switzerland. 
Wordsworth  was  then  under  twenty-five,  and  the  shock 
was  bitter,  the  blow  went  deep.  He  himself  felt  that  he 
had  been  "tossed  about  in  whirlwind,"  but  he  had  kept 
grip  upon  himself;  when  it  was  over  he  possessed  himself 
utterly.  He  wrought  his  way  out  of  the  storm  roused 
within  him  by  a  return  upon  his  younger  self,  developed 
and  broadened  in  some  measure  by  the  experience  through 


100  CHARLES  H.  BURR. 

which  he  had  passed,  but  yet  in  all  reality  the  same  self. 
It  is  significant  that  before  beginning  "to  construct,"  to 
use  his  words,  "a  literary  work  that  might  live,"  he 
composed  "The  Prelude"  as  a  "review  of  his  own  mind," 
attempted  to  examine  what  he  had  acquired  from  nature 
and  education,  seemingly  without  thought  of  development 
through  entering  into  new  regions  of  feeling  and  experi- 
ence. From  that  day  onward  (and  he  was  not  yet  thirty) 
life,  as  signifying  sensation,  passion,  was  a  thing  unknown. 
The  history  of  these  years  does  not  present  the  gradual 
attaining  to  clearer  vision  and  a  serener  outlook  worked 
out  in  a  man  by  new  ideas  transforming  his  character 
and  life,  but  the  resolute  taking  up  again  of  the  old  self 
and  life,  the  transformation  of  which  by  the  ideas  so  lately 
abandoned  appear  as  an  illusion.  Around  this  thought 
must  gather  any  real  understanding  of  Wordsworth's  devel- 
opment and  life;  it  alone  explains  the  vital  enthusiasm 
and  spirited  energy  toward  progress  manifest  in  the  young 
man,  the  contented  acceptance  of  conservative  conventions 
in  the  middle-aged  and  older  man. 

By  1798  Wordsworth's  life  had  taken  the  course  from 
which  it  never  afterwards  varied,  passed  as  it  was  in  his 
quiet  home  with  his  sister  and  wife.  Dorothy  Wordsworth 
w^as  a  woman  of  the  most  delicate  originality.  Her  diary, 
her  letters,  every  trace  she  has  left,  show  her  great  gifts, 
her  sensitive,  beautiful,  and  yet  strong  nature.  She  gave 
herself  whollv  to  her  brother,  and  effaced  herself;  that 
his  indebtedness  to  her  w^as  great  indeed  is  clear,  how 
gi'eat  can  never  be  known.  His  wife  was  not  comparable 
to  her  as  an  influence  or  as  a  character.  Wordsworth 
judged  her,  when,  thinking  to  praise,  he  wrote  of  her: 
"Peace  settles  where  the  intellect  is  meek." 

These  two  women  were  his  daily  companions,  and  his 


THE    YOUNGER    WORDSWORTH.  101 

whole  life  became  one  of  self-absorbed  reflection  and  con- 
templation. It  was  within,  that  he  fonnd  the  springs  of 
poetic  impulse,  and  the  subject  of  his  interpretation  was 
nature  as  she  lay  around  him.  The  lines  composed  above 
Tintern  Abbey  are  dated  in  the  year  1798,  and  mark 
the  beginning  of  his  fruitful  period.  It  is  the  man  who 
then  lived  and  wrote,  not  the  older  Wordsworth,  who  has 
most  to  give  the  world  of  encouragement  and  delight,  and 
Avhom  we  must  seek  to  understand. 

When  Wordsworth  turned  in  the  Prelude  to  examine  his 
faculties  and  powers,  he  looked  upon  a  nature  of  great 
depth  and  strength.  It  was  necessarily  a  character  of 
fundamental  stability  which,  after  the  ardent  dreams 
known  in  France,  could  face  the  bitterness  of  the  awaken- 
ing, and  resolutely  and  withal  joyously,  take  up  again 
the  eventful  succession  of  days  his  country  life  meant  to 
him.  Such  conduct,  however,  was  not  that  of  the  sensi- 
tive, passionate  lover  of  mankind.  Keats  was  more  highly 
sensitive  than  he,  Shelley  more  swiftly  imaginative,  Byron, 
perhaps,  had  more  force  at  the  moment  of  contact ;  but 
among  literary  men  of  the  centu.ry  none  had  a  nature  so 
firmly  rooted  in  itself.  To  find  such  another,  one  must  go 
back  to  Milton.  An  all-sufficing  self-mastery,  a  noble  dig- 
nity in  purpose  and  in  the  achievement  was  the  distinctive 
mark  of  Milton's  genius,  and  among  moderns  is  found  in 
Wordsworth  alone.  If  by  the  magic  color  of  his  verse 
Keats  is,  as  Arnold  said,  with  Shakespere,  so  by  the 
solidity  and  substance  of  his  poetry  is  Wordsworth  with 
Milton. 

One  is  accustomed  to  think  of  the  riches,  the  wealth 
of  a  poet's  gifts  from  nature :  of  S]ienser,  let  us  say,  or 
Keats,  or  the  young  Goethe.  But  in  studving  Words- 
worth,   one   thinks  rather  of  strength   and   steadfastness. 


102  CHARLES  H.  BUEK. 

Strong  affections,  strong  imaginative  insight,  strong  faith 
in  reality,  touched  to  finest  beauty  by  an  abiding  spirit 
of  joyousness,  made  the  man  a  poet.  The  Lucy  poems 
are  intense  in  their  strength  of  emotion,  and  reveal  the 
nature  of  Wordsworth,  as  his  last  sonnet  likewise  reveals 
Keats.  Wordsworth  lacked  emotionally  the  ease  and 
unreserve  which  would  have  allowed  him  to  give  himself 
with  effusion ;  deep  as  were  his  affections,  though  they  had 
the  intensity  of  strong  feeling,  they  lacked  always  the 
intensity  of  sensuousness,  of  passion.  His  use  of  this  last 
word  is  curious:  with  him  it  is  the  equivalent  of  "emo- 
tion;" its  meaning  is  heightened  by  words  such  as  "holy" 
and  "pure;"  never  does  it  become  the  "breathing  human 
passion"  of  Keats:  never  would  Wordsworth  have  hailed 
the  bending  lover:  "Forever  shalt  thou  kiss  and  she  be 
fair,"  but  again  never  would  love  as  he  conceived  it  have 
brought  "a  morn  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed,  a  burning 
forehead  and  a  parching  tongue." 

To  some  again  Wordsworth  may  lack  the  lightness,  the 
fire,  the  uplift  of  Shelley  in  his  lines  to  a  Skylark ;  or  the 
melancholy  tenderness  of  his  lament  over  Keats: 

"Alas!    that  all  we  loved  of  him   should  be, 
"But  for  our  grief,   as   if   it  had   not   been, 
"And   grief   itself   be   mortal!      Woe   is   me! 
"Whence  are  we.  and  why  are  we  ?     Of  what  scene 
"The  actors  or  spectators?" 

Wordsworth,  it  is  true,  walked  close  to  nature  and  stepped 
firmly  upon  this  earth.  And  one  may  venture  to  think 
that  the  very  stability  of  his  footing  gives  to  his  words 
a  greater  healing  power: 

"Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

"Of  splendor  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower; 

"We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 

"Strength   in  what   remains  behind: 


THE    YOUNGER    WORDSWORTH.  103 

"In   the   soothing   thoughts   that   sjiring 
"Out  of  human  suffering; 
"In  the  faith  that  looks   through   death, 
"In  years  that  bring  tlie   philosophic  mind." 

Sensitiveness  and  delicacy  of  perception  are  to  be  found 
in  strong,  deep  natures  as  often  as  in  those  richly  and 
vehemently  emotional ;  and  the  gi'eatest  possession  of 
Wordsworth  was  his  rarely  penetrative  imagination. 
ISTone  ever  so  higlily  conceived  the  office  of  this  faculty, 

"  but  another  name  for  absolute  power 

"And   clearest   insight,   amplitude   of   mind, 
"And  reason   in  her  most  exalted  mood"; 

none  ever  glorified  it  so  highly 

"The  gleam, 
"The  light  that  never  was   on  sea  or   land 
"The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream." 

This  it  meant  to  him,  this  it  became  in  his  hands.     And 

with  it  there  went  along  a  purity  of  sensibility  till  he 

became 

"as  sensitive  as  waters  are 
"To   the   sky's    influence"; 

and  felt  in  his  love  for  nature 

"Those   hallowed   and   pure   motions   of   the   sense 
"Which  seem,   in  their  simplicity,  to  own 
"An  intellectual  charm." 

The  imagination  in  Wordsworth  was  penetrative,  not  con- 
structive ;  it  never  mastered  him,  took  the  pen  from  his 
fingers,  and  wrote  of  things  greater  than  he  knew.  To 
the  eyes  of  Wordsworth's  imagination  never  appeared 

"Magic   casements   opening   on  the   foam 
"Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  lands  forlorn." 


104  CHAELES  H.  BUBK. 

But  working  with  bis  sense  of  joy,  it  carried  him  into 
the  heart  of  things  and  revealed  to  his  deep  nature  the 
deepest  and  most  fundamental  facts  of  life. 

That  which  gives  Wordsworth  pre-eminent  distinction 
is  his  vital  faith  in  the  "deep  power  of  joy."  The  first 
half  of  this  century  was  not  a  time  when  the  need  for 
joy  was  generally  either  accepted  or  recognized.  The 
bitter  words  of  Carlyle  to  Goethe  strike  the  more  popular 
note  of  feeling :  "I  have  learned  that  what  I  once  called 
"happiness  is  not  only  not  to  be  attained  on  earth,  but  not 
"even  to  be  desired."  But  Wordsworth,  looking  upon  man, 
perceived  "the  grand  elementary  principle  of  pleasure,  by 
"which  he  knows,  and  feels,  and  lives  and  moves."  It 
meant  to  him,  not  the  fleeting  exhilaration  of  the  senses 
nor  light-hearted  immunity  from  the  pains  and  sorrows  of 
life,  but  that  normal,  healthy  sense  of  happiness  and 
delight  which  comes  to  a  man  when  his  faculties  and 
activities  are  all  in  harmony  with  the  conditions  of  his 
life.  Joy,  then,  is  the  child  of  health,  health  of  mind  and 
soul  as  well  as  of  body ;  and  it  is  in  reality  that  one  shall 
seek  and  find  it,  not  by  building  impossible  dreams  out  of 
beautiful  imaginings,  but  by  living  close  to  the  heart  of 
nature,  and  treading  in  the  fragi-ant  footing  of  duty. 
Then  will  nature  appear  to  man  "as  a  teacher  of  truth, 
"through  joy  and  through  gladness,  and  as  a  creatress  of 

the  faculties  by  a  process  of  smoothness  and  delight;" 
he  will  say  of  duty: 

"Nor  know   we  anytliing  so   fair 
"As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face." 

"The  joy  of  elevated  thoughts"  will  be  his,  and  under  "the 
deep  power  of  joy"  he  will  "see  into  the  life  of  things." 
Out  of  the  real  facts  of  existence  into  the  common  life 


a 


THE    YOUNGEK    WORDSWOKTH.  105 

of  man  Wordsworth  wished  to  bring  joj,  carrying  inevit- 
ably with  it  into  that  life  perceptions  of  truth  and  sen- 
sitiveness to  beauty. 

It  was  in  nature  that  Wordsworth  found  "a  never-failing 
principle  of  joy." 

"The  ever-living   uniAcrse, 

"Turn  where   I   might,   was   opening  out   its   glories, 

"And   the    independent    spirit   of    pure   youth 

"Called   fortli,   at  every   season,   new  delights 

"Spread   round   my   steps   like    sunshine   o'er   green   fields." 

Nature  became  to  him,  therefore,  ''a  stronc;  and  holv 
passion,"  "strong,"  because  of  his  deep  memories  of  delight 
in  her,  "holy,"  because  he  felt  he  perceived  in  her  forms 
of  beauty  the  revelations  of  the  spirit  of  the  universe, 

"Whose    dwelling    is    the    light    of    setting    suns, 
"And   the    round    ocean,    and   the    living   air, 
"And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man 
"A  motion   and   a    spirit,   that  impels 
"All    thinking   things,    all    objects    of    all    thought, 
"And  rolls  through  all  things." 

Wordsworth — 

"Felt  the  sentiment  of  Being  spread 

"O'er  all   that   moves   and  all   that   seemeth   still; 

"O'er  all  that,  lost  beyond  the  reach  of  thought 

"And  human   knoA\ledge,  to  the   human   eye 

"Invisible,  yet  liveth  to  the  heart; 

"O'er  all  that  leaps   and   runs,   and  shouts  and   sings, 

"Or  beats  the  gladsome  air." 

Tenderly,  therefore,  reverentially  even,  did  he  approach 
nature;  sacred  to  him  were  her  moods  and  words.  Inti- 
mately and  closely  he  lived  near  her  and  studied  her,  and 
her  slightest  motion  he  perceived  and  stored  in  memory. 
To  her  influence  he  left  his  nature  open  and  sensitive,  that 
he  might  receive  what  she  had  to  give ;  he  felt  her  to  be 


106  CHARLES  H.  BURR. 

infinitely  greater  than  himself,  and  into  lier  moods  he  never 
forced  his  own.  Impossible  to  him  was  a  demand  like 
Shelley's  to  the  West  Wind: 

"Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 

"My  spirit!     Be  thou  me,   impetuous  one! 
"Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the   universe, 
"Like  withered  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth!" 

To  Wordsworth  that  would  have  been  to  reverse  his  whole 
relation  to  nature.  Equally  impossible  to  him  was  the 
conception  of  her  as  fruitful  and  teeming;  the  "Ode  to 
Autumn"  breathes  a  feeling  he  never  shared.  The  intoxi- 
cating and  magical  in  nature,  her  fecundity,  Wordsworth 
never  felt ;  to  him  she  was  bright  and  beautiful,  pure  and 
majestic. 

In  this  noble  and  elevated  attitude  toward  nature,  we 
may  unreservedly  follow  and  learn  from  Wordsworth. 
What  is  elemental  in  man,  what  is  in  him  born  of  the 
traditions  of  his  origin,  what  unites  him  to  the  universe 
about  him  and  gives  him  his  place  therein — all  this 
Wordsworth  alone  among  moderns  has  firmly  grasped,  and 
the  "Ode  of  Duty"  and  the  "Lines  composed  above  Tintern 
Abbev"  come  to  us  with  the  authority  of  the  seer.  There 
is  nothing  more  tonic  in  English  Literature  than  that 
invocation  to  the  "Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God !" 

"Thou  dost  preserve  the  stars  from  wrong 

"And  the  most  ancient  heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh  and  strong." 

Again  we  venture  to  repeat  that  deep  and  powerful  was  the 
nature  which  returned  upon  itself  and,  while  Europe  was 
doing  penance  for  her  dreams,  built  up  so  sane  an  outlook 
upon  human  life. 

But  Wordsworth,  though  he  saw  life  steadily,  saw  it 
not  whole.  Turning  back  even  to  the  days  of  Shakespere, 
how  far  removed  is  that  world  in  which  Hamlet  lives  to 


THE    YOUNGEE   WOEDSWOKTH,  107 

our  imagination,  from  the  life  of  nature  of  which  Words- 
worth sang !  Man  in  society  with  its  inherent  complexity, 
its  subtle  heightening  of  life,  its  broader  capacities  and 
wider  possibilities  for  pain  and  joy,  its  graver  dangers,  its 
brighter  promises  to  the  spirit  of  man — all  this  was  not 
within  the  scope  of  Wordsworth's  vision.  There  is  an 
accent  in  the  greatest  poetry,  an  abiding  sense  of  the 
struggle  and  distress  of  mankind  upon  this  sorrowful  earth 
alien  to  Wordsworth's  thought.  Homer  long  ago  voiced 
it  in  Zeus'  address  to  the  horses  who  were  immortal : 

"O,  unhappy  pair!  why  gave  we  you  to  Pelevis,  the  King,  a  mor- 
tal? *  *  *  Was  it  that  with  man  born  to  misery,  ye  might  know 
sorrow?" 

It  informs  the  verse  of  Shakespeare: 

"We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of,  and 
"Our    little    life    is    rounded    by    a    sleep." 

It  is  known  to  Goethe : 

"Soul  of  man, 

"How  like  to  the  ^yater! 

"Future   of   man, 

"How  like  to  the  wind!" 

But  this  is  only  to  say  that  Wordswortli  is  not  one  of 
the  greatest  of  the  world's  immortals,  and  to  mark  the 
limits  of  his  genius  as  poet.  And  the  very  comparisons 
he  challenges  place  him  far  beyond  the  reach  of  envious 
fame.  To  the  first  flush  of  youth,  the  poetry  of  others — 
of  Keats  and  Shelley,  perhaps — may  appeal  as  Words- 
v/orth's  cannot.  Their  work  was  the  work  of  youth,  for 
Keats  died  at  twenty-five,  Shelley  at  twenty-nine  ;  at  nearly 
the  age  when  Wordsworth's  really  valuable  work  began. 
Let  a  few  years  pass  over  one,  and  in  the  best  verse  of 
Wordsworth  is  felt  a  deeper  knowledge  and  a  richer 
wisdom,  it  sounds  upon  one's  ears  with  an  authority  soon 


108  CHAKLES  H.  BUKK. 

honored  and  beloved ;  it  appeals  to  a  more  matured  imagi- 
nation, to  the  man  in  whom  the  early  all-importance  of 
sensuous  emotion  each  day  grows  less,  and  whom  more  and 
more  moral  and  intellectual  questions  engage.  Not  for 
one  moment  be  the  suggestion  made  that  the  treatment 
of  moral  and  intellectual  questions  in  verse  will  constitute 
great  poetry;  often,  as  in  Wordsw^orth's  later  verse,  they 
operate  to  deprive  it  of  all  real  poetry;  but  his  best 
work  came  from  a  man  whose  mind  and  heart  were  alive 
to  these  questions,  and  in  it  he  informed  them  with  emotion 
and  with  beauty.  The  measure  and  health  of  his  poetry, 
its  reality,  its  high  idealism,  have  a  wonderful  power  of 
engaging  and  sustaining  us.  He  gives  us  emotion,  emotion 
chastened  but  imequalled  in  intensity.  What  in  Keats  or 
in  Shelley  can  we  lay  beside  the  Lucy  poems  ?  He  makes 
us  think,  and  where  shall  wo  find  such  depth  of  thought 
clothed  in  rarest  beauty  as  in  the  "Lines  composed  above 
Tintern  Abbey?"  He  is  spiritual,  and  it  is  an  elevating, 
vitalizing,  effectual  spirituality,  never  ethereal  and  trans- 
cendental. What  can  be  sounder,  more  applicable  to  daily 
lives  than  the  sonnet  ''The  world  is  too  much  with  us  ?" 
And  if  in  the  feeling  of  some  pure  beauty  is  the  one 
thing  demanded  of  poetry,  what  more  beautiful  than  the 
images  which  came  to  him  as  ho  lay  and  courted  sleep  ? 

"A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely   pass  by 
"One  after  one ;   the  soniul  of  rain,  and  bees 
"Murmurinfi;;   the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
"Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky." 

In  the  lives  of  too  many  of  us  there  comes  a  time  when 
we  cease  to  draw  each  day  new  vitality  from  real  contact 
with  life  and  nature,  and  with  unenlightened  steps  walk 
the  path  marked  out  by  habit.  That  time  came  to  Words- 
worth.    A  young  man,  he  had  warmed  his  whole  nature 


THE    YOUNGER   WORDSWORTH.  109 

with  generous  dreams  of  lofty  purpose ;  and  then  returning 
to  his  country  home,  he  drew  upon  the  stored-up  treasures 
of  his  young  days  for  the  inspiration  of  his  earlier  verse; 
and  full  and  rich  was  the  response.  But  he  had  severed 
himself  from  the  sources  of  inspiration,  from  contact  with 
real  vitalizing  life  among  men ;  he  had  failed  in  persistent 
effort  to  gatlier  to  himself  new  ideas,  to  widen  the  bounds 
of  his  intellectual  self,  and  broaden  the  possibilities  of 
sympathy ;  and  the  sterility  of  his  later  life  was  the  certain 
and  sad  conseqiience. 

Yet  one  may  wonder  if  in  the  man  himself  there  was  not 
inherently  something  which  made  him  not  so  much  narrow 
as  limited.  Even  in  his  best  poetry — and  certainly  in 
his  best  years  when  "Peter  Bell"  and  "The  Idiot  Boy"  were 
written — there  was  much  in  the  world  even  of  nature,  and 
especially  of  mankind,  seemingly  cut  off  from  his  percep- 
tion and  knowledge.  The  ethereal  imaginative  sweep  of 
Shelley,  the  warm  richness  and  color  of  Keats,  the  melo- 
dious finish  of  Tennyson,  one  will  not  find  in  Words- 
worth's poetry.  Yet  how  much  of  gTcatness  about  the  man 
remains,  must  always  remain.  On  the  poetry  of  whom 
else  among  moderns  can  one  rest  with  equal  sense  of 
stability  and  happiness  ?  Who  other  speaks  so  clearly  and 
with  such  authority  to  what  is  most  fimdamental  in  us, 
what  most  deeply  concerns  our  lives  ? 

There  is  one  all-important  fact  one  must  gi*asp  if  one 
would  come  fullv  to  know  Wordsworth,  the  secret  of  his 
youth  and  his  old  age.  It  is  that  his  best  work  is  not 
the  fresh  and  spontaneous  outgiving  of  a  man  whose  whole 
self  is  daily  renewed  and  made  fruitful,  but  is  a  result 
of  a  return  upon  his  younger  self.  Happy  for  the  world 
and  for  Wordsworth  that  such  return  was  made  upon  a 
youth  so  worthily  lived,  so  stored  with  beautiful  and  joyous 


110  CHARLES  H.  BUER. 

memories !  And,  when  all  is  said  and  one  tries  to  call 
up  the  image  of  Wordsworth  as  he  will  dwell  in  the 
memory  of  the  world,  there  must  vanish  wholly  the  recol- 
lection of  the  older  uninspired  man,  and  remain  only  the 
bright  pictui'e  of  that  young  spirit  of  health  and  joyousness 
who  speaks  to  us  out  of  his  earlier  verse,  and  brings  us 
to  say  with  him:  "Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit 
"of  knowledge — it  is  as  immortal  as  the  heart  of  man." 


VITA  NUOVA,  CHAPTEKS  24-28. 


By  a.  G.  H.  Spiers,  A.M. 


VITA  NUOVA,  CHAPTERS  24-28. 

Most  critics  see  in  the  second  Canzone  the  pinnacle 
of  the  Vita  ISTuova.  Prof.  Grandgent,  writing  in  1901, 
said :  "IsTow  in  this  carefully  planned  Vita  Xuova  there 
is,  in  one  place,  a  formidable  gap :  a  poem  is  lacking  in 
the  very  spot  where  one  is  most  needed.  At  the  real 
conclusion  of  the  young  poet's  history,  the  death  of  Bea- 
trice, we  find  nothing  but  plain  prose.  It  seems  incredible 
that  Dante,  with  his  tendency  to  put  all  his  psychic  experi- 
ences into  verse,  did  not  at  once  attempt  a  poem  on  his 
bereavement;  if  he  did  so,  his  composition  evidently  did 
not  suit  him,  either  because  he  had  not  yet  attained 
sufficient  power  to  treat  such  a  theme,  or  because  the  very 
keenness  of  his  grief  benumbed  his  inspiration.  When 
he  came  to  construct  his  Xew  Life,  artist  as  he  was,  he 
certainly  felt  this  lack  and  adroitly  sltifted  the  centre  of 
interest  to  a  different  part  of  tlie  narrative,  the  premoni- 
tion of  his  lady's  death,  told  in  the  second  Canzone."'^ 

Prof.  Norton  had  already  suggested  this ;  while  John 
Earle  had  based  upon  the  same  opinion  an  argument  for 
the  allegorical   interpretation  of  the  whole  book.^     Nor 

'Romania,   XXXI    (Jan.,   1902),   pp.    17,   18. 

* — "So  that  this  translation  of  B.  (not  her  natural  death,  but 
her  Heavenly  translation)  crowns  the  highest  pinnacle  of  the  whole 
structure,  and  likewise  pervades  it  to  its  uttermost  extremities" 
( i.  e.,  the  first  and  last  sonnets.)  "If  we  consider  that  the  natural 
death  of  B.  is  put  by,  as  a  matter  not  to  the  purpose,  while  her 
removal  to  another  sphere  stands  first,  middle,  and  last,  can  we 
think  the  'Vita  Nuova'  to  be  in  the  nature  of  a  literal  memoir,  or 
to  be  anything  but  a  work  of  imaginative  art  and  an  allegory!" 
(Anonymously,  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  July,  1896). 

8  (113) 


114  ^-    Q-    II-    SPIERS. 

do  the   majority   of   Italian   scholars   themselves   hold   a 
different  view.^ 

IsTow  if  we  consider  only  the  arrangement  of  the  poems, 
only  the  design  laid  down  by  the  verse  compositions,  the 
importance  of  the  second  Canzone  cannot  be  contested."* 
There  is,  however,  something  else  to  be  weighed.  Besides 
poem-grouping  there  is  content.  In  addition  to  the  inter- 
relation of  the  verse,  there  is  the  broader  and  palmary  con- 
sideration of  the  matter  as  a  whole — ^not  merely  the  story 
itself,  but  the  manner  in  which,  through  both  prose  and 
verse,  it  is  presented  to  us  in  the  finished  production  of 
the  artist. 

Dante  has  stressed,  we  believe,  a  totally  different  point 
of  the  Vita  Nviova.  This  other  stress  receives  too  little 
recognition,  being  hidden  by  our  different  habits  of  com- 
position and  shadowed  especially,  perhaps,  by  the  dis- 
coveries of  Rossetti  and  Prof.  iS^orton.'^  Yet  our  text 
suggests  it;  and  a  study  of  the  methods  of  procedure  in 
the  work  of  the  Provengal  and  early  Italian  poets  supports 
this  suggestion.  While  space  does  not  permit  us  to  indi- 
cate here  the  place  occupied  in  this  early  lyric  by  the 
tendency  which  we  shall  cite  in  support  of  our  views,  the 
present  paper  will,  however,  attempt  to  indicate  briefly 
the  presence  of  this  tendency  in  Dante's  writing  in  gen- 
eral  and   then   show  how  its  use,   coupled  with   certain 

*  e.  g.,  Cesareo,  who,  reviewing  G.  Melodia's:  La  V.  N.  di  D. 
Alighieri  (Milan,  1906),  looks  upon  the  vision  of  Chapter  23  as 
"un  preteato  di  D.  per  coUocare,  nel  bel  mezzo  della  V.  N.,  la 
canzone  del  transito  dove  B.  di  donna  ridiventa  cittadina  del 
cielo."     Zeitschrift  f.  rom.  phil.,  XXX,  p.  685. 

*  For  discussion  and  bibliography  of  this  question  v.  Kenneth 
McKenzie's  Symmetrical  Structure  of  Dante's  V.  N.  (Public,  of  Mod. 
Lang.,  Ass.  XVIII,  p.  341). 

•v.  McKenzie  ibid,  p.  342. 


VITA  NUOVA,   CHAPTERS   24-28.  115 


peculiarities  of  the  Vita  ISTuova  itself,  makes  of  Chapters 
24-28  a  studied  preparation  for  an  important  climax — a 
climax  coincident  with  the  death  of  Beatrice. 


Dante  had  a  feeling  for  mass  and  progression.  It  is  a 
fundamental  principle  of  his  style. 

This  general  feeling  can  be  traced  even  in  his  prose. 
The  introduction  to  Canzone  I  of  the  Vita  Nuova  gives 
remarkable  evidences  of  this.  The  incident  to  be  given 
there  contains  two  salient  points,  viz.  the  ladies'  question 
and  their  final  comment.  Accordingly  the  story  is  divided 
into  tv>^o  parts.  A  leisurely  preparation,  rich  with  pretty 
details,  prepares  the  way  for  each  of  these ;  but  their 
entry  is  short  and  terse.  The  second,  however,  is  the 
really  startling  point  of  the  two.  Dante  has  answered 
simply,  giving  what — without  stopping  to  reflect — he 
believed  to  be  the  truth.  Then  suddenly,  almost  brutally, 
the  blow  falls.  Introduced  only  by  the  words  *'Ed  ella 
rispose,"  the  lady  shows  him  that  his  whole  attitude 
toward  Beatrice  has  been  wrong.  This  second  part, 
pausing  for  a  moment,  slowly  develops,  enwrapping  the 
crest  of  the  first  as  it  proceeds,  overtojDS  it,  and  falls  with 
the  accumulated  w^eight  of  both  in  the  pregnant  utterance: 
'*Se  tu  ne  dicessi  vero,  quelle  parole  che  tu  n'hai  dette, 
notificando  la  tua  condizione,  avresti  tu  operate  con  altro 
intendimento." 

A  natural  consequence  of  this  feeling  is  a  solicitude 
for  the  excellence  of  concluding  passages,  being,  as  they 
are,   the  terminus   ad  quem  of  the  Avhole   composition.^ 

*  It  must  be  noted,  however,  that  in  many  cases  Dante's  concluding 
lines  do  not  represent  tlie  culmination  of  the  thought  developed 
in  the  sonnet  or  stanza.  They  pailake  often  of  the  nature  of  an 
embellishment,  as  in  the  ca.se  of  the  first  stanza  of  "Amor  dacchfe 
convien,"  or  the  third  stanza  to  "lo  sento  si  d'Amor."     v.  note  10. 


116  A.    G.   H.    SPIERS. 

Dante  has  openly  confessed  an  interest  in  these.  In 
Convivio  IV-XXX,  he  says :  "And  here  it  must  be  known 
especially  that  every  good  poet  should  ennoble  and 
beautify  the  end  of  his  work  as  much  as  in  him  lies,  so  that 
it  may  leave  his  hands  more  worthy  and  more  excellent." 
While,  speaking  of  the  final  lines  to  the  opening  stanza 
of  Canzone  VI,  he  explicitly  states  that  the  reference  to 
the  star  is  made  in  order  to  catch  the  ear  of  those  whom  he 
is  addressing.  In  a  third  case,  his  own  commentary 
emphasizes  his  adherence  to  this  principle :  ''Oh  quanto 
e  come  bello  adornamento  e  questo  die  neirultimo  di  questa 
Canzone  si  da  ad  essa,  chiamandola  amica  di  quella,  la 
cui  propria  magione  e  nol  secretissimo  della  divina 
Mente.""^ 

In  the  separate  Canzone-stanzas  and  in  the  sonnets, 
this  solicitude  takes  the  form  of  particular  attention  paid 
to  the  effect  of  final  lines.  Indeed  "Dante's  stanza  or 
sonnet  in  nearly  every  case  closes  with  a  certain  fillip  to 
the  mind  or  to  the  feelings."^  Among  the  most  striking 
examples  are  Sonnets  18  and  23  of  the  Vita  Xuova,  and 

the   fourth   stanza   of   "O   patria    degiaa ."     Of   a 

different  nature,  though  similar  in  strength,  is  the  ending 

to  "Guide  vorrei ."     The  two  lines  which  end  the 

first   stanza   of    "Tre    donne "    (lines    very    much 

admired  by  Carducci^),  the  pathetic  addition  of  "Purche 
la  vita  tanto  si  difenda"  to  the  third  stanza  of  "lo  sento 

'  Convivio  IV,  XXX.  All  references  are  to  ]\Ioore's  Tutte  le  opere 
di  Dante  Alighieri.     Third  edition,  Oxford,   1904. 

•  This  statement,  which  space  will  not  allow  us  to  prove  here,  is 
drawn  from  "Character  and  Efl'eetiveness  of  Final  Lines  in  Dante's 
Lyric"  (A.  G.  H.  Spiers),  a  dissertation  accepted  at  Harvard  Uni- 
versity as  part  fulfilment  of  the  requirements  for  the  degree  of 
Ph.D.     V.  our  note  10  below. 

•Studi   Lett.     Second  edition,   p.   221. 


VITA  NUOVA,   CHAPTERS   24-28.  117 

si   d'Amor ,"    the    final    line    to    Sonnet   3 :     "Che 

donna  fu  di  si  gaia  sembianza,"  etc.  Even  the  metre  is 
made  at  times  to  minister  to  the  effect  of  the  stanza- 
ending.^^ 

But  of  the  many  forms  taken  by  this  constant  solicitude 
for  the  final  passages,  one  is  of  special  significance  to  our 
study. 

This  may,  for  lack  of  a  l>etter  term,  be  styled  ''use  of 
contrast.''  That  Dante  appreciated  the  force  of  contrast 
in  general,  the  close  of  Sonnet  2  will  testify : 

"Sicchf-,   volcndo   far   come   coloro 
Che  per  vergogna  celan   lor  inancanza, 
Di    fuor   niostro    allegranza, 
E  dentro  dallo  cor  mi  struggo  e  ploro." 

**  G.  Lisio  (L'Arte  del  Periode  iielle  opere  volg.  di  D.A.  e  del 
secolo  XIII.  Bologna,  1902),  while  paying  no  particular  attention 
♦o  final  lines,  has  incidentally  brought  corroboration  to  our  state- 
ments, as  when  he  notes  (p.  1(!2)  the  strength,  through  unusual 
word-order,  of  "Morta  &  la  donna  tua  che  era  si  bclla"  (Canzone 
II,  IV),  or  when  writing  (p.  105)  of  Sonnet  21,  he  says:  "Cosi 
nel  sonetto  XXI,  L'Amaro  bigriinar  che  voi  facestc.  tutto  il  discorso 
intimo  del  cuor  di  Dante  termina  per  periodo  al  verso  13°,  dove  a 
punto  non  vorronmo  fermarci  per  compiere  il  suono:  e  rinipro\^isa 
sosta  e  la  cortezza  sintattica  danno  quindi  aU'ultinio  verso  'Cosi 
dice  il  mio  core,  e  poi  sospira,'  tale  eflicacia,  clie  noi  restiamo 
lungamente  sospesi  innanzi  ad  esso."  Or  when,  again,  he  says 
(p.  205)  :  "Altro  effetto  si  ottiene,  specie  in  fine  di  coniposizione, 
con  un  construtto  che  par  come  una  sospensione  indcfinita  di 
desiderio  o  di  altra  sospirata  fantasia.  Cos!  mi  sembra  av^'enga 
per  questi  tre  versi  in  fine  di  sonetto  (Sonnets  XI,  XII  and  XV)  : 
Si  ^  twi^o  miracolo  c  gciitilc:  Che  il  cor  mi  trenia  di  vcdcrnc  tanto: 
E  va  dicendo  aWanima :  sospira."  It  is  pleasing  to  find  a  born 
Italian's  appreciation,  somewhat  subjective  thougli  it  may  be,  coin- 
ciding unwittingly  with  our  own  views.  When  we  deal  with  finnl 
lines  alone,  however,  far  more  conclusive  reasons  may  be  adduced 
to  prove  that  Dante  used  his  metre,  as  well  as  his  matter,  in  such 
a  way  as  to  emphasize  the  last  lines,     v.  Note  8. 


118  A.    G.    H,   SPIERS. 

as  might  also  the  conclusion : 

"Che  da  sera  e  da  mane 
Hai  ragunato  e  stretto  ad  ambe  mano 
Cid  che  si  tosto  ti  si  fa  lontano."" 

Considerable  power  is  derived  from  this  procedure  in  the 

closing  lines  of 

"Ch'Amor,  quando  si  presso  a  voi  mi  trova, 
Prende  baldanza  e  tanta  sicurtate, 
Clie   fiere  tra'   miei   spirti   paurosi 
E  quale  ancide,  e  qual  caccia  di  fuora, 
Sicch'ei  solo  rimane  a  veder  vui: 
Ond'io  mi  cangio  in  figura  d'altrui; 
]Ma  non  si  ch'io  non  senta  bene  allora 
Gli   giiai   degli   scacciati   tormentosi.'"* 

Similarly  there  is  an  effective  contrast  between  the  attitude 

of  mind  provoked  by  the  preceding  lines  and  the  message 

of  the  final  statement  when  the  poet  sings: 

"Quando   I'imaginar   mi   tien   ben   fiso, 
Giungemi  tanta  pena  d'ogni  parte, 
Ch'io  mi  riscuoto  per  dolor  ch'io  sento; 
E  si  fatto  divento, 
Che    dalle   genii    vergogna    mi    parte. 
Poscia  piangendo,  sol  nel  mio  lamento 
Chiamo  Beatrice;   e  dico:   Or  se'tu  mortal 
E  mentre  ch'io  la  chiamo,  mi  conforta."" 


yj 


A  more  sudden  shock  is  given  in  ''Poschia  ch'Amor — 
where  eighteen  lines,  explaining  the  behavior  of  a  man  who 
is  really  noble,  are  followed  by  the  brief: 

"Color   che   vivon    fanno    tutti    contra," 

"  "Doglia  mi  roca     *     *     *"     Stanza  IV. 

"V.  N.  Sonnet  7.  Moore  and  Fratieelli  do  not,  Ave  think,  clearly 
bring  out  the  function  of  the  last  lines  here:  they  use  a  simple  comma 
after  "altrui."  Surely  D'Ancona's  semi-colon  is  preferable.  Dante's 
preference  for  the  independent  construction  and  the  efTect  to  l)e 
obtained  therefrom  is  briefly  indicated  by  Lisio  ibid,  p.  185. 

"V.  N.     Canzone  III,  Stanza  IV;  cf.,  also  Stanza  V. 


VITA  NUOVA,   CHAPTERS   24-28.  119 

as  closing  words  of  the  whole  canzone.  But  most 
effective  of  all  perhaps  is  the  surprise  in  Vita  Nuova 
Sonnet  20 — all  the  more  worthy  of  notice  in  that  the 
prose  does  not  suggest  it: 

"lo  non   posso   tener  gli  occhi   distrutti 
Che    non    rigviardin    voi    molte    fiate, 
Pel    desiderio    di    pianger    ch'egli    hanno: 
E   voi    crescete   si   lor   volontate, 
Che  della  voglia  si  consuman  tutti; 
Ma   lagrimar   dinanzi   a   voi   non   sanno." 


Having  noted  this  general  tendency  in  Dante's  work 
and  recognized  particular  manifestations  of  this  tendency 
(and  one  especially,  that  of  contrast),  let  us  now  turn  to 
Chapters  24-28. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  peculiarity  of  this  group  of 
chapters,  regarded  as  a  whole,  is  the  pause  in  the  story's 
advance.  From  the  beginning  to  Chapter  24,  prose  and 
verse  lead  the  mind  on  continually ;  each  is  a  step  in  a 
progression,  and  each  contains,  to  a  certain  degree,  the  seed 
of  its  successor  while  presenting  in  itself  the  development 
of  that  which  has  preceded.  In  Chapters  24-28,  this  is 
not  so.  Even  a  casual  perusal  of  the  ideas  in  verse  and 
prose  shows  this.  Here  the  jjoet  omits  those  episodes  intro- 
duced elsewhere,  as  Cesareo  has  said,  "per  comporre  il 
suo  romanzo  che,  intimo  e  spirituale  quanto  si  voglia, 
dovea  pur  esser  variato  di  qualche  azione  accessoria."^^ 
If,  before,  we  have  been  ascending  a  gradually  rising 
slope,  we  ascend  no  further  here:  a  sort  of  plateau  lies 
before  us,  and  not  until  Chapter  29  are  we  to  rise  or 
descend  again. 

The    individual    poems    themselves    deser^^e    comment. 

"Zeitschrift  f.  rom.  phil.,  XXX,  pp.  687-8. 


120  A.    G.    H.    SPIERS. 

Of  the  four  verse  compositions,  the  three  sonnets  seem 
to  have  little  real  connection  with  the  Vita  ISTuova. 
Kather  they  belong  to  other  surroundings,  and  perhaps 
even  to  a  different  inspiration. 

Two  patent  peculiarities  distinguish  the  first.  One  is 
the  oft-noted  use  of  the  name  ''Bice,"  while  elsewhere  in 
the  verse  of  the  Vita  Nuova  Dante's  lady  is  never  men- 
tioned by  name  until  after  her  death,  and  even  then  only 
the  full  form  "Beatrice"  is  used.  The  second  is  the 
extreme  irregularity  of  structure.  Thoroughly  in  keep- 
ing with  these,  is  the  expression  of  an  almost  careless  joy 
(we  are  speaking  of  the  Sonnet  considered  apart  from  the 
prose)  of  the  kind  found  in  the  pastorals.  Adding  to 
these  points  the  mention  of  Giovanna,  we  have  every  right 
to  believe,  as  some  critics  do,  that  this  poem  was  written 
under  the  direct  influence  of  Cavalcanti,  and  is  closely 
related  to  "Guido  vorrei ." 

The  two  following  sonnets  present  two  peculiarities. 
As  a  rule,  Dante's  sonnets  are  distinguished,  as  we  have 
said,  by  the  careful  development  of  each  part  from  the 
preceding  part,  at  least  through  the  first  tercet.^*^  It 
must  prick  our  attention,  therefore,  to  find  looseness  of 
construction  in  these  two  sonnets.  These  poems  present 
ideas  as  a  series  rather  than  as  a  development,  as  a  cata- 
logue rather  than  as  a  progression ;  that  is,  they  are  an 
attempt  to  combine  into  a  sonnet  certain  separate  expres- 
sions of  praise.  Sonnet  16  especially  presents  this 
peculiarity — to  such  an  extent,  indeed,  that,  in  spite  of 
Dante's  ovra  analysis  in  the  "divisione,"  we  feel  that 
it  lacks  unity  of  point  of  view. 

"cf.     Note  6  above. 


VITA  NUOVA,   CHAPTERS   24-28.  121 

The  second  peculiarity  lies  in  the  final  lines.     Sonnet 
15  ends  with: 

"E  par  che  della  sua  labbia  si  mova 
Un  spirito  soave   d'Amore 
Che    A'a   dicendo   a    I'anima    'sospira' " 

and  Sonnet  1 6  with : 

"Ed  6  negli  atti  suoi  tanto  gentile 
Che  nessun  la  si  puO  recare  a  mente 
Che  non  sospiri  in  dolcezza  d'amore." 

It  is  useless  to  recall  to  the  student  of  early  lyric  how 
frequently  the  sigh  figures  in  the  verse  of  the  troubadours 
and  how  it  later  became  incorporated  in  the  system  of 
the  dolce  stil  nuovo.  Now  Dante  was  fond  of  this  idea.-^* 
Appreciating  its  delicate  power,  and  with  that  feeling  for 
the  importance  of  final  lines  which  everywhere  charac- 
terizes his  lyric,  Dante  used  it,  as  he  did  other  cherished 
ideas,^'^  to  heighten  the  eifect  of  his  conclusions.  Two 
other  sonnets,  besides  Sonnet  15,  end  with  "sospira"  as 
the  last  word  of  the  whole  composition,  while  two  canzone- 

"  As  shown,  for  instance,  bj'  "  *  *  *  Ne  alcuno  era  lo  quale 
potesse  niirar  lei,  che  nel  principio  non  gli  convenisse  sospirare. 
Queste  e  piil  mirabili  cose  da  lei  procedeano  virtuosamente"  (V.  N., 
Chapter  26). 

"  Interesting  in  this  particular  is  Dante's  use,  in  conclusions,  of 
the  exclamatory  summary,  as  in  Sonnet  14:  "  *  *  *st  mi  soraiglia," 
and  in  the  Canzone  "Quantunque  volte  *  *  *"  which  ends  with 
"  *  *  *  tanto  ^  gentile."  This  trait  which,  save  for  one 
possible  exception — Guinizelli's  "  *  *  *  e  quest'6  la  cagione" 
(Casini:  Le  Rime  dei  Poeti  Bologncsi  del  secolo,  XIII,  Bologna, 
1881,  p.  42),  does  not  appear  in  the  works  of  Cavalcanti  or  of  the 
"Maximus  Guido,"  Dante  developed  from  a  similar  but  less  pro- 
nounced use  of  the  same,  found  among  the  Provengaux.  In  Dante's 
lyrics  this  summary  occurs  as  often  in  the  final  jjosition  as  in  all 
other  positions  put  together:  e.  g.,  S.,  11;  S.,  14;  Canzoni  V.  II; 
XL  XIII;   XV.   II;   Sestina  I.  I. 


122  A.    G.    H.    SPIERS. 

stanzas  give  "sospiri"  the  same  prominent  position.^^ 
Whence  it  is  evident  that  such  conclusions  were  not 
unpremeditated,  and  that  the  final  words  of  our  sonnet 
received  special  attention — a  point  further  emphasized 
bj  the  direct  quotation,  in  the  use  of  which  our  poet  was 
careful.^ ^  In  Sonnet  16  Dante  has  undertaken  even 
more.  iSTot  content  with  the  sigh,  Avith  "dolcezza"  or  with 
"Amore"  alone,  all  favorite  ideas, ^*^  he  heaps  them 
together,    including  them   all   in  the   one   last  line. 

Admitting,  therefore,  the  great  care  which  Dante 
bestowed  on  these  last  lines,  and  noting  in  the  sonnets  a 
looseness  of  construction  unusual  in  his  verse,  as  well  as 
no  references  connecting  them  especially  with  incidents  of 
the  Vita  IsTuova,  we  may  be  alloAved  to  believe  that  they 
may  have  been  mere  exercises,  that  Dante  was  practising 
his  conclusions.     The  fact  that  the  construction  is  worse 

'''Sonnets  21  and  39;  Canzoni  VI.  II.  and  VII.  II;  compare  the 
interestingly   parallel   use   in   Eambaut   di   Vaqvieiras : 

*      *      *      tals   vira 

sentira 
mos  dans,  qui .  Is  vos  grazira, 
que. us  mira 
consira 
cuidans,    don    cors    sospira. 
(Appel's  Provenzalische  Chrestomathie, 

Leipzig,  1902,  No.  52). 
"  Not  to  enter  upon  a  long  discussion  here,  we  simply  indicate 
the  fact  that  in  what  are  perhaps  Dante's  two  finest  canzoni,  "Donna 
pietosa  *  *  *"  and  "Voi  che  intendendo  *  *  *"  every  stanza, 
save  the  first,  ends  with  a  direct  quotation.  In  the  latter,  Stanzas 
II  and  III  have  it  at  the  end  of  the  pedes  as  well  (that  point  at 
which  this  canzone  makes  its  main  pause)  ;  while  in  Stanza  IV 
the   final   quotation    is   double. 

•"  "Amor"  is  the  last  word  of  two  poems.  Ballad  X  and  Sonnet  27. 
It  occupies  the  same  position  in  the  first  stanza  of  Canzone  VII ; 
while  the  verb  is  similarly  used  in  Canzone  VIII.  I,  and  Canzone 
XIII.   II. 


VITA  NUOYA,    CHAPTERS   24-28.  123 

in  that  poem  which  undertakes  the  most  iu  its  conclu- 
sion supports  this  supposition. 

It  would  seem  then  that  the  three  sonnets  of  the  chapters 
under  discussion  had  originally  no  real  connection  with 
the  Vita  Nuova.  That  on  Monna  Vanna  and  Monna 
Bice  was  plainly  out  of  harmony  with  the  general  tone 
of  the  '^libello,"  and  Dante  felt  that  it  was  unsuitable,  as 
the  efforts  of  the  preceding  prose  to  bring  it  into  line 
readily  show. 

To  be  sure,  this  very  prose  indicates  a  possible  dif- 
ference to  be  made  between  these  sonnets  and  those  before 
Canzone  II,  by  suggesting  a  more  unearthly  character  for 
Beatrice,  whereby  the  '^loda  di  questa  gentilissima" 
might  resemble  the  prevailing  manner  of  praising  saints  f^ 

"It  would  be  possible  to  go  still  further  than  Salvadori  (Sulla 
Vita  Giovanile  di  Dante,  Rome,  1907,  p.  88)  :  "quelle  che  piil  importa 
$  che  per  essa  (this  new  "poesia  di  lode")  abbianio  la  manifestazione 
della  bellezza  dell'umilta.  L'umilta  si  presentd  ai  nostri  antichi 
poeti  velata  sotto  il  dolce  riso  femminile,  etc."  We  might  recall 
the  frequent  use  of  "humilitas"  as  applied  to  the  saints.  Folquet 
de  Marselha  pi'esents  an  interesting  use  of  the  equivalent  in  the 
vulgar  tongue,  applying  it  to  the  divinity : 

"Aias  de  mi  bos  ehauzimens 

car  ieu  soi  pies  de  tot  peccat 

E  tu,   senher,   d'umilitat." 

Malm.  Werke,  I,  p.  335. 
V.  also  Salvadori's  own  interesting  notice  (pp.  1G8-9)  on  the 
parallel  treatment  of  Beatrice  and  St.  Margaret  as  identified  with 
Chi-ist  (an  identification  which,  it  will  be  noted,  is  emphasized 
strongly  in  the  first  of  our  set  of  chapters).  "Ma  il  massimo  dono 
coneesso  dal  Salvatore  a  Margherita  fu  che  la  vita  di  lui  in  lei  si 
rappresentasse  per  la  conformitfl,  etc." 

Nevertheless,  it  must  be  remembered  that,  after  all,  this  attitude 
need  in  no  way  be  the  result  of  a  special  phase  of  Dante's  love  for 
Beatrice  at  this  point  of  his  story;  for  all  the  poets  of  the  dolce  stil 
nuovo  stood,  as  Bertoni  puts  it  (Studi  IMedievali,  1907,  p.  368), 
in  relation  to  their  ladies  as  the  great  doctors  did  to  Mary  Virgin. 


124  A.    G.    H.    SPIERS, 

and  in  that  case,  we  should  understand  their  being  intro- 
duced. It  would  be  logical,  then,  to  agi-ee  with  Salvadori 
who,  referring  to  the  fragment  immediately  following, 
writes:  ''L'ultimo  termine  di  quest'  amore  poteva  essere 
I'abbandono  senza  resistenza  alia  sua  signoria  sentita  come 
soave,  la  dolcezza  dell'estasi.  Allora  non  rimangono  che 
sospiri,  e  un  intimo  contento  di  trovarsi  in  quella  con- 
dizione,  cosi  profonda,  che  I'uomo  non  puo  quasi  piu 
niuoversi  ne  parlare,  rapito  fuor  di  se.  E  questo  lo  stato 
descritto  neirultima  canzone  composta  Beatrice  viva, 
rimasta  interrotta."^^  This  can  hardly  be  so,  however,  as 
we  shall  see  by  considering  the  "fragment" — the  only  poem 
of  our  set  of  chapters  not  yet  examined. 

We  shall  not  insist  upon  the  tone  of  this  "fragment," 
which  might  well  arouse  a  suspicion  of  exaggeration, 
exposing,  as  it  does,  an  absolute  lack  of  personal  reaction 
that  can  be  found  in  no  other  of  Dante's  poems.  Such  an 
observation  is  too  weak  a  foundation  for  what  we  would 
demonstrate.  We  shall,  however,  lay  stress  on  three  other 
peculiarities,  on  three  strong  indications  that  this  poem 
is  not  the  transcription  of  a  real  state.  The  first  is  that 
Dante  insists  upon  the  incompleteness  of  a  composition 
which  seems  to  us,  as  to  very  many  critics,  to  be  complete 
as  it  stands.  Casini,  for  instance,  maintains  that  the 
ideas  which  Dante  meant  to  put  forward  are  completely 
expressed,  and  that  this  stanza  formed  originally  a  separate 
composition,^^  and  all  those,  who,  with  Prof.  ISTorton, 
regard  it  almost  as  a  sonnet,  doubtless  share  this  view. 
The  second  indication  shows  us  that  the  "divisione"  to 
this  poem  is  entirely  lacking:   and  yet  it  is  mentioned 

"Sulla  Vita   Giovanile  di   Dante.     Rome,   1907,   p.  89. 
"  La  V.  N.  di  D.  Al.  con  intr.,  commento  e  glossario.     Florence, 
1890. 


VITA  NUOVA,   CHAPTERS   24-28.  125 

at  least  (if  not  developed)  for  every  other  poem  in  the 
book ;  nor  can  this  omission  bo  due  to  the  "fragmentary" 
nature  oi  the  present  verse,  since  the  four  lines  of  an 
unsatisfactory  beginning  to  Sonnet  18  arc  explained  with 
care.^*  The  third  indication  draws  our  attention  to  a 
still  more  significant  fact.  This  canzone  is  broken  off 
by  the  cry  of  tlie  prophet :    ''Quomodo  sedet  sola  civitas 

plena  populo ."     This  lament  breaks  in  upon  the 

song  with  absolutely  no  warning.  Nor  is  this  all.  Con- 
scious planning,  plainly  discernible  already,  becomes  still 
more  obvious  when  we  note  that  this  Latin  quotation  is 
disi)laced.  The  natural  sequel  to  the  poem  was  the 
words :  "lo  era  nel  proponimento  ancora  di  questa 
canzone,  etc."  But,  instead,  the  Latin  citation  is  thrust 
in  before  them,  although  its  bearing  on  the  narrative  is 
explained  only  two  chapters  later  and,  even  then,  its 
presence  is  not  by  any  means  clearly  justified. 

These  three  facts — insistence  upon  the  fragmentary 
nature  of  a  poem  in  all  ])robability  complete,  unique 
omission  of  the  disturbing  "divisione,"  displacement  of 
the  Latin  quotation — all  can  mean  but  one  thing:  Dante 
sought  to  emphasize  very  vigorously  the  interruption  of 
the  song  by  the  cry  of  lament. 

Summing  up,  then,  what  reason  can  we  find  for  includ- 
ing Chapters  24-28  in  the  Vita  Nuova  ?  We  have  seen  that 
the  narrative  does  not  progress  through  them,  as  a  whole. 
The  first  sonnet  was  clearly  out  of  keeping  with  the  tone 
which  our  poet  wished  to  stamp  upon  the  finished  work. 
The  two  following  sonnets  are  in  no  way  definitely  con- 

**  It  is  needless  to  remind  the  student  that  Dante  was  fully  aware 
of  the  interiniption  which  an  inserted  "divisione"  would  cause;  as 
is  evident  from  the  words,  "Acciociife  ijiiesta  canzone  paia  rinianere 
viepitl  vedova  dopo  il  suo  fine,  la  dividero  prima  ch'io  la  scriva," 
prefixed  to  "Gli  occhi  dolenti     *     *     *" 


126  A.    G.    H.    SPIERS. 

nected  with  the  Vita  Nuova,  and  originally  indeed  may 
have  been  nothing  but  exercises  on  climax.  The  fragment 
seems  destined,  with  the  aid  of  the  following  Latin,  to 
fulfil  some  duty  j^erformed  by  the  juxtaposition  of  the 
two.     Why,  then,  did  Dante  insert  these  chapters  ? 

Let  us  examine  them  from  a  different  point  of  view. 


After  the  preparatory  vision  of  Canzone  II,  all  is  calm. 
Even  those  episodes  destined  to  lend  life  and  motion  to 
the  narrative,  and  which  necessarily  centred  about  the 
narrator's  emotions,  are  withheld  here.  |^  Our  attention  is 
turned  away  from  the  effects  of  Beatrice  on  the  poet: 
his  suffering  and  unrest  vanish.  Four  of  the  five  chapters, 
save  perhaps  a  hint  here  and  there,  may  be  called  entirely 
objective.  Chapter  2-i  shows  Beatrice  superior  to  all 
women;  Chapter  25  discusses  a  poetical  usage;  the  two 
following  are  devoted  to  praise  of  Beatrice  and  her  influ- 
ence, not  upon  Dante  particularly,  but  on  all  persons. 
Only  in  Chapter  28,  the  fragment,  does  the  subjective 
element  return ;  and,  having  at  last  appeared  again,  it 
emphasizes,  as  never  elsewhere,  the  total  loss  of  inde- 
pendence, of  personal  reaction.  Beatrice  is  perfection, 
and  wliatever  she  may  bring  of  pain  or  sorrow,  the  poet 
accepts  with  delight.  Thereupon,  in  sudden,  planned 
explosion,  the  personal  note,  the  protest,  bursts  out  once 
more.  The  voice  of  the  individual  cries  aloud.  After 
four  chapters  of  repose,  the  climax  of  happiness  is  cut 
short  by  a  wailjDf  sorrow^;  the  song  of  finally  acquired 
peace  is  broken  by  an  exclamation  cherished  throughout 
Christendom  as  an  expression  of  deepest  anguish.j 


To  obtain  this  sudden  turn,  this  shock,  was  Dante's 
aim.     Its  preparation  extends  backward  as  far  as  the  end 


VITA  NUOVA,   CHAPTERS   24-28.  127 

of  Canzone  II,  If  we  accept,  as  we  must,  the  idea  that 
he  prepared  the  finished  work  with  the  preoccupation  of 
an  artist,  it  is  thus  that  we  can  account  for  the  introduction 
of  that  apparently  irrelevant  chapter  on  the  personifying 
of  love.  It  is  in  this  way,  too,  tliat  we  can  understand 
the  release  of  tension  in  general  throughout  this  group  of 
chapters.  And  the  possible  exaggeration  of  the  fragment, 
as  well  as  the  evident  preparation  for  the  following  prose, 
likewise  find  here  a  satisfactory  explanation. 

As  we  have  seen,  the  Vita  IsTuova  itself  authorizes  this 
form  of  aj)preciation :  the  peculiar  character  of  the  matter 
in  Chapters  24-28  lends  itself  to  this  interjiretation,  while 
structural  peculiarities  almost  require  it.  In  addition, 
the  analogy  with  the  methods  of  procedure  found  else- 
where in  Dante,  especially  the  use  of  contrast,  is  only  too 
plain.  Just  as,  in  spite  of  Salvadori,  we  are  unable  to 
find  any  real  model  for  the  Vita  iSTuova,-^  and  are  conse- 
quently forced  to  consider  it  as  a  development  to  a  lai'ger 
scale  of  a  single  canzone,  so  the  method  applied  in  this 
group  of  chapters  seems  to  represent  the  expansion  of  a 
procedure  found  elsewhere  in  single  canzone-stanzas.     Of 

"Salvadori  (ibid.  pp.  234-5)  refers  to  Guittone  d'Arezzo  (with 
his  series  of  Sonnets  I-LXXIX,  in  the  Pellegrini  edition)  and  Caval- 
canti  (with  the  61  sonnets  in  the  Vatican  Canzoniere)  as  the  "ante- 
cedenti"  of  Dante :  indeed  he  speaks  of  the  Vatican  collection  as 
perhaps  the  "antecedente  iramediato,  e  probabilmente  I'esempio,  d'una 
raceolta  di  rime  ordinata  a  contare  un'intima  storia  d'amore,  quale 
fu  poi  la  Vita  Nuova."  A  hasty  perusal  of  Pellegrini  will  show 
how  unfitted — for  our  subject  at  least — Guittone's  work  is  to  serve 
ae  a  model;  while  the  one-man  autliorship  of  the  sonnets  in  Vatican 
3793  seems  to  be  about  disproved.  Bertoni,  who  gives  the  bibli- 
ography on  this  subject  up  to  1907  (in  Studi  Medievali,  Vol.  2, 
fasc  3,  pp.  363-366),  writes:  "Noi  ci  troviamo  dinanzi  ad  un  florilegio, 
di  cui  le  parti  costitutive  possono  anche  risalire  a  poeti  conosciuti 
per  altri   componimenti      *      *      *" 


128  A.    G.    H,    SPIERS, 

course,  the  Latin  quotation  should  be  included  in  the  same 
chapter  as  the  fragment  (or  at  least  be  severed  from  the 
succeeding  chapter).  It  is  part  and  parcel  of  Chapters 
24-28,  and  more  particularly  attached  to  the  last.  Lack- 
ing it,  this  part  of  the  book  is  as  incomplete  as  though 
the  final  line  were  dropped  from  Cavalcanti's : 

"Per  gli  ocelli  fere  la  sua  claritate 
Si  die  quale  mi  vede 
Dice:    non  guardi  tu  questa  pietate, 
Cli'S  posta   invece  di  persona   morta 
Per  dimandar  mercede? 
E   non   si   n'&   madonna   ancor   aceorta. 
(lo  non  pensaA'a     *     *)" 

or  Guinizelli's 

"e  poi  direttamente 
fiorisce  e  mena  frutto, 
per6  mi  sento  isdutto ; 
I'amor  crescendo  iiori  e  foglie  ha  messe 
e  ven  la  messe — e'l  frutto  non  ricoglio."^' 

or  any  one  of  those  passages  from  Dante  quoted  above, 
where  the  strength  of  the  sonnet  or  stanza  depends  upon 
the  contrast  introduced  by  the  final  lines. 

It  is  beyond  our  ability  to  determine  the  value  of  the 
stress  planned  for  this  point  in  the  Vita  Nuova,  and  to 
indicate  its  relation  to  the  evident  stress  on  Canzone  11. 
But  of  one  thing  we  may  be  sure :  it  certainly  was  con- 
sidered as  having  great  strength  by  Dante  himself.  And 
no  interpretation  of  the  book  can,  we  believe,  neglect  a 
consideration  of  this  well-marked  emphasis. 

"'  Casini :   Le  Rime  dei   Poeti   Bolognesi  del   secolo  XIII,  Bologna, 
1881,  p.  13. 


SOME   FKANCO-SCOTTISH  INFLUENCES   ON 
THE  EAELY  ENGLISH  DRAMA. 


By  John  A.  Lester^  Ph.D. 


SOME     FRANCO-SCOTTISH     INFLUENCES     ON 
THE     EAULY    ENGLISH    DRAMA. 

From  the  treaty  of  Philip  the  Fair  with  John  Baliol 
in  1295,  down  to  the  union  of  England  and  Scotland 
under  one  king,  there  runs  an  uninterrupted  line  of  alli- 
ances between  the  two  countries.  Scotch  troops  fovight 
continually  with  the  French,  and  on  more  than  one  occa- 
sion French  troops  were  landed  in  Scotland.  Buchanan, 
for  instance,  ser^'ed  with  the  French  force  organized  by 
Albany,  which  raided  the  English  border  in  1523.  Intel- 
lectual relations  necessarily  followed  the  political.  David 
Murray  founded  and  endowed  a  Scots  college  in  Paris  in 
1350,  and  before  long  schools  for  teaching  French  were 
started  in  Scotland.  Rich  youths  aimed  to  go  from  St. 
Andrews  t/O  Paris,  as  Lindsay  bears  witness  in  making  his 
purse-proud  Abbot  say :  '^I  send  my  sonis  to  Paris  to  the 
scuillis."^  Scottish  ecclesiastics  held  French  benefices, 
and  a  Frenchman  was,  early  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
regent  of  Scotland.  William  Dunbar,  Alexander  Barclay, 
and  Lindsay  w^ere  all  representatives  of  their  country  in 
France,  as  were  Alain  Chartier,  Ronsard,  and  Du  Bartas 
in  Scotland.  These  were  all  poets  who  must  have  carried 
from  court  to  court  the  taste  for  that  literature  and  those 
forms  of  entertainment  which  flourished  in  a  court 
atmosphere. 

The  relation  between  the  early  drama  of  Scotland  and 
that  of  France  first  shows  itself  in  the  fifteenth  century,^ 

'^  Satire  of  th-e  Three  Estates.     \Yorks    (ed.   Chalmers),   II,   91. 

■  Recorda  of  payments  to  Frencli  minstrels  can  be  found  in  the 
Calendar  of  State  Papers  for  Scotland  as  early  as  Feb.  3,  1303-4: 
"Datum  per  regem  Morand  le  Taborier  facienti  menestralciara 
suam  coram  rege  apud  Dunfermelyn." 

(131) 


132  JOHN    A.    LESTER. 

as  is  shown  by  the  following  records,  which  seem  hereto- 
fore to  have  escaped  notice.  In  the  Exchequer  Rolls  of 
Scotland,^  in  the  year  1436,  there  is  record  of  the  payment 
of  £18  to  three  stage-players,  who  are  hired  at  Bruges, 
and  sent  with  their  outfit  to  Scotland;  and  of  £32  for 
a  similar  purpose,  to  some  other  stage-players.  One  of  the 
said  players,  Martin  Vanartyne,  signs  the  receipt.  The 
records  read  as  follows: 

"Et  tribus  mimis  conductis  per  computantem  et 
transmissis  in  Scociam,  et  preparando  se  ad  mare,  sub 
periculo  computantis  XVIII  li.  gr.  Et  quatuor  aliis 
mimis  secunda  vice  conductis  versus  Scotiam  pro  servicio 
domini  regis  per  compotantem,  ad  parandum  se  ad  iter, 
ut  patet  per  literas  domini  regis  sub  signeto  de  precepto 
et  cujusdem  Martini  Vanartyne,  unius  dictorum  mimorum, 
sub  sigillo  suo  de  recepto,  ostensas  super  compotum 
XXXII  li.  gi'."-* 

There  is  a  further  payment  for  the  dresses  of  these 
actors. : 

"Et  compotat  transmisse  domino  regi  in  nave  vocata 
Skippare  Henry,  cum  Willelmo  Wik,  in  vestimentis 
mimorum,  et  argento  dicta  bullioun  pro  eisdem  vestimentis, 
et  duobus  mantellis  pellium  martrix  dicti  sabill,  scripto 
particulariter  examinato  et  remanente  ut  supra,  sub 
periculo  compotantis  XXXIII  li.  VI  s.  gr.'"^ 

Elanders  was  at  this  time  under  the  illustrious  and 
cultured  Dukes  of  Burgundy ;  and  Bruges  especially, 
where  Philip  the  Good  had  frequently  held  his  court,  was 
a  centre  of  commercial  and  literary  activity.  English 
merchants  lived  there  in  considerable  numbers ;  and  Cax- 

•ed.  Burnett,  Edin.,   1880. 
•id.,  IV   (1406-1436),  p.  678. 
•  Id.,  p.  680. 


INlfLUENCES  ON   THE   EARLY   ENGLISH  DRAMA.         133 

ton  began  liis  long  residence  there  five  years  after  these 
players  were  shipped.  These  mimi  were  perhaps  profes- 
sional court  performers,  accustomed  to  act  before  the 
Burgundian  aristocracy.  Two  years  later  there  is  a 
record  of  a  reward  paid  to  one  Martin,  presumably 
Vanartyne.  An.  1438 ;  "Et  Martino,  mimo,  et  sociis 
ejusdem,  tempore  coronacionis  regis,  de  mandato  regine 
et  consilii,  sub  periculo  computantis  VIII  li.  X  s."^ 

At  the  end  of  the  century  French  actors  were  still  in 
demand,  as  appears  from  the  following  entry  in  the 
accounts  of  the  Lord  High  Treasurer  ;^  "1490,  Item,  on 
Fryda  the  XXIII  Julii  in  Dunde,  to  the  king  to  gif  the 
Franschemen  that  playt,  XX  unicornis  XVIII  li."  But 
it  was  in  the  sixteenth  century^  that  early  French  dramatic 
forms  most  impressed  themselves  on  Scotland.  Influence 
of  this  sort  was  only  a  part  of  the  refining  process  which 
Scotland  was  undergoing  through  contact  with  France. 
The  Scotch  court  must  have  French  builders,  doctors, 
apothecaries,  printers  and  tailors.  French  fashions  in 
dress  were  indeed  always  a  standing  target  for  Scotch 
satirists.     Buchanan,    Knox   and    Lindsay*    all   protested 

*Id.,  V   (1437-1454),  p.  35. 

^ed.  T.  Dickson    (Edinburgh,   1877),  p.   170. 

•The  play  called  "Haliblude,"  acted  at  Aberdeen  May  13,  1440, 
by  the  so-called  Abbots  of  Bonaccord  (vid.  E.  Bain,  Historij  of  the 
Aberdeen  Incorporated  Trades,  Aberdeen,  1887),  pp.  49,  51,  58, 
to  judge  from  its  name  and  its  svippression  because  of  "divers 
enormyities"  in  1445,  was  a  mock-religious  burlesque.  In  view  of 
the  close  relations  between  France  and  Scotland,  "Haliblude"  may 
well  have  been  a  reproduction  in  Scotland  of  the  type  of  plays 
furnished  by  the  "soci§tes  joyeuses" — burlesque  dramatic  societies 
which  sprang  up  all  over  France  at  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  and 
beginning  of  the  fifteenth  centuries.  The  Abbot  of  Bonaccord  would 
correspond  with  the  "prince  des  sots"  of  Paris,  "la  m^i-e  folle"  of 
Dijon,  or  the  "Abb^  de  la  Liesse"  of  Arras. 

•  Cf .  Ane  Supplication  directit  to  the  Kingis  Grace  in  conlemp- 
tioun  of  Syde  Taillis.     Works    (ed.  Laing) ,  I,  128. 


134  JOHN    A.    LESTER. 

against  them.  But  it  was  in  entertainments,  courtly  and 
popular,  that  French  influence  is  most  clearly  seen. 
French  musicians  were  hired  by  the  Scotch  court  in  the 
fifteenth  century.^*^  Henry  IV  of  France  sends  to  James 
VI  "un  tireur  d'armes  et  un  baladin  de  la  capacite  et 
fidelite  duquel  il  respondra."^^  James  IV  had  a  French 
entertainer  who  combined  the  art  of  alchemy,  astrology 
and  morris-dancing.  Mary  Stuart  had  a  French  female 
comedian  called  La  Jardiniere,  and  a  company  of  French 
puppets.^^ 

The  first  case  of  a  farce  known  to  Collier^ ^  is  the  per- 
formance mentioned  in  a  letter  of  February  1541/2  from 
Sir  William  Paget,  English  ambassador  in  the  French 
court,  to  Henry  VIII.  But  farces  were  played  in  French 
mysteries  long  before  1541.  For  instance,  in  the  miracle- 
play  called  ''La  Vie  de  Sainct  Fiacre,"^ ^  a  farce  occurs 
following  the  notice,  "cy  est  interpose  un  farsse."  AVhat 
the  Scotch  writers  call  farces  bear  evidence  of  French 
influence.  Robert  Lindsay,  writing  of  the  marriage  of 
James  IV  with  Margaret,  daughter  of  Henry  VII  of 
England,  which  took  place  at  Holyrood  on  August  8, 
1503,  says:  "The  heill  nobillitie  and  commons  of  the 
realme  *  *  *  everie  one  according  to  thair  estait, 
maid  hir  sic  bankattin  feirceis  and  playes  that  nevir 
siclykk  was  seine  in  the  realme  of  Scotland  for  the  entres 
of  na  queine  that  was  resawit  afoirtyme  in  Scotland. "^^ 

^'Exchequer  Rolls  of  Scotland,  an.  1467;  Lord  High  Treasurer's 
Accounts,   CCLXI. 

''^  Recueil  dcs  Icttixs  missives  dc  Henri  IV,  VI.  p.  181. 

*•  Joseph  K-oberteon,  Inventories  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  LX,  LXXI. 

"Hist,  of  Eng.  Drama.  Poetry   (L.  1879),  1.  71. 

"  Jubinal,  Mysteres  Inedits  15""     Siecle,  I,  332. 

"Robert  Lindsay,  The  Historic  and  Chronicles  of  Scotland  (ed. 
Mackay,  Sc.  T.  S.,  Edinburgh  and  London,  1899),  I.  240.  Vid.  also 
his  account  of  the  marriage  of  James  V  with  Madeleine  of  France 
on  Jan.  1,  1537;   I,  365. 


INFLUENCES  ON  THE  EAELY  ENGLISH  DRAMA.         135 

Again  describing  the  coronation  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots 
in  1543,  the  same  chronicler  relates:    "Schone  after  this 
the  lardis  convenit  at  Stiruiling  the  XX  day  of  August  in 
the  zeir  of  God  1543,  and  thair  convenit  the  zoimg  quein 
with   gret   solenipnitie,    trieumphe,    playis,    phrassis    and 
bankating,  and  great  danceing  befor  the  quene  with  gi-eit 
lordis  and  frinche  ladyis."^^     Again  at  Mary's  marriage 
with  the  Dauphin,  in  1558,  Lindsay  says,  there  was  "gret 
singing,   playing,  dansing  and  pheirsis."^'^     As  early  as 
1530  Sir  David  Lindsay  writes  in  the  Complaynt  of  the 
Papingo  : 
"And  in  the  courte,  bene  present,  in  thir  dayes, 
That  ballatis  brevis^^  lustelie,  and  layis, 
Quhilkes  till  our  prince  daylie  they  do  present. 
Quha  can  say  mair,  thou  schir  James   Inglis  sayis 
In  ballatis,  farsis  and  in  plesand  playis."^^ 
Sir  James   Inglis  was   superintendent   of  court  enter- 
tainments, and  the  Treasurer's  accounts  show  payments  to 
him  as  an  actor:    "Dec.  10,  1511,  12  ells  of  tafFcty  and 
12  ells  of  canvass  were  furnished  at  an  expense  of  £8/8/0 
and  14/  to  be  hyme  and  his  collegis  play-cotes."     About 
the  end  of  1526  is  recorded,  "Item,  to  Sir  James  Inglis 
to  by  play-coitis  agane  Yule,  be  the  kingis  precept  £40.""*^ 
His  "farces"  may  be  what  some  of  this  provision  was  made 
for.     In  1554  there  is  mention  in  the  Edinburgh  records 
of  the  performance  of  a  "litill  farsche  and  play,  made  be 
William     Lauder;"'^     and     in     1561,     "triumphs     and 


"Id.  II,  15. 
"  Id.  II,  125. 


"  Writes. 

"Works    (ed.  Chalmers),  I,  286,  Stanza  V. 
'^Dunbar's  Poems   (ed.  Laing),  II,  392-3. 
"  Dibdin,  Edinburgh  Stage,  p.  9. 


136  JOHN    A.    LESTER. 

fairsais"^^  were  plajed  in  the  same  town.  We  have  the 
authority  of  Knox  for  saying  that  these  farces  were  copied 
from  the  French.^^  Probably  well  before  the  middle  of 
the  century,  but  certainly  by  that  time,  the  Scotch  had 
made  considerable  progress  in  copying  French  triumphs, 
and  those  dramatic  performances  which  were  used  on 
special  public  occasions. 

The  preceding  considerations  show  an  early  connection 
between  France  and  Scotland  in  things  appertaining  to 
the  drama,  which  will  not  be  considered  superfluous  when 
it  is  remembered  that  Scotch  drama,  if  we  may  give 
it  that  name,  w'ith  all  its  tendencies,  preferences  and 
precedents,  was  bodily  transported  to  England  and  grafted 
on  the  national  stock  in  1603, 

But  a  direct  line  of  French  influence  seems  to  have 
reached  England  by  way  of  Scotland  through  Sir  David 
Lindsay.     Lindsay's    well-known    Satire    of    the    Three 

"The  Scotch  writers  are  extremely  careless  in  their  use  of  the 
word  farce.  The  earliest  example  of  the  word  (missed  by  New 
England  Dictionary)  is  in  Lindsay's  Epistil  to  the  Kinyis  Grace, 
prefixed  to  his  Dreme,  which  was  written  in  1528.  The  reference 
is  to  a  time  ten  or  twelve  years  earlier.  He  reminds  James  V  that 
he  used  to  amuse  him  by  "sumtyme  playand  farsis  on  the  flure;" 
Works  (ed.  Laing,  Edinburgh,  1879),  I,  1.  "Farces"  here  seems 
to  mean  gambols  such  as  might  please  a  child;  for  James  at  the 
time  referred  to  was  a  young  boy.  But  Robert  Lindsay  (Op.  cit.  I, 
379),  describing  the  reception  in  Scotland  of  James  V  and  his  second 
French  bride,  Mary  of  Guise,  in  1538,  says,  "Thair  was  maid  to  hir 
ane  irieumphant  frais  [MSS  I  has  "pheirs,"  i.  e.,  farce]  be  Schir 
David  Lyndsay  of  the  Mont."  But  the  description  which  follows 
shows  this  to  have  been  not  a  farce,  nor  a  masque  (as  is  stated  by 
Diet,  of  Nat.  Biog.,  James  V,  p.  157),  but  a  triumph.  It  means  this 
also  in  Robert  Lindsay's  account  {Op.  cit.  I,  3S1)  of  the  reception  of 
James  V  and  Mary  of  Guise  in  Edinburgh  in  1538.  They  were 
received,  he  says,  with  "greit  triumi)h  phraisses."  But  cf.  the 
instance  in  the  text,  where  triumphs  and  farces  are  mentioned  aa 
distinct  and  separate  performances. 

"fftsf.  of  the  Reformation  (Works,  ed.  Laing),  II,  287. 


INFLUEIN^CES  ON  THE  EARLY-  ENGLISH  DRAMA.         137 

Estates,  was  probably  first  played  in  15-iO.  It  is  a 
political  morality  denouncing  and  satirizing  abuses  in 
both  church  and  state.  Though  political  poems  were  per- 
haps even  commoner  in  Scotland  than  in  England  duTing 
the  time  of  the  Reformation,  the  political  morality  was 
known  in  neither  country  before  the  time  of  Lindsay. 

The  Scotchman's  play  Avas  trenchant  and  witty  to  a 
degree  far  surpassing  contemporary  English  drama,  and 
attacked  abuses  which  did  not  exist  alone  north  of  the 
border,  but  were  objects  of  satire  in  every  country  which 
felt  the  Reformation.  It  Avould,  then,  be  strange  if 
Ward's  opinion,^^  that  this  work  was  without  influence 
on  contemporary  English  drama,  were  founded  on  fact. 

The  Satire  of  the  Three  Estates  was  very  popular  in 
Scotland,  and  was  being  played  as  late  as  155-1.  Sir 
William  Eure's  letter  to  Cromwell,  in  which  he  says  that 
after  the  Linlithgow  performance  of  1540  the  king  called 
upon  Chancellor  Dunbar  and  several  of  his  bishops  and 
bade  them  reform  "their  fashions  and  manners  of  living," 
or  else  he  would  send  "six  of  the  proudest  of  them  to  his 
uncle,  of  England,"^^  shows  how  it  impressed  contem- 
poraries. Its  influence  appears  first  south  of  the  border 
in  Bale's  King  John.^^  R.  Wever's  Lusty  Juvcntus 
(1550)  seems  to  have  caught  the  spirit  of  reformation 
controversy  from  Scotland,  and  in  the  liespuhtica,^''  a 
morality  on  the  Catholic  side,  produced  in  1553,  there 

"History  of  Eng.  Dram.  Lit.    (3d  ed.),  1899,  I,  131. 

'^  Diet,  of  ISfat.  Biog.,  Sir  David  Lindsay. 

"  Cf .  Herford  "Literary  Relations  of  England  and  Germany,  p. 
135.  In  dating  the  first  performance  1539,  Herford  fails  to  correct 
for  new  style.  The  performance  was  on  Epiphany  1539/40;  i.  e., 
Jan.  6,  1540. 

^'Printed  by  Brand],  Quellen  and  Forschungen,  Heft  80. 


138  JOHN    A.    LESTER. 

is  again  evident  influence  of  Lindsay.^^  Albion  Knight, 
entered  in  1565-6,  shows  a  further  ste])  toward  the  freedom 
and  boldness  of  the  Scot.  Ward  calls  this  a  "political 
morality, "2 '^  and  Collier  says  it  is  part  of  a  political  play 
which,  so  far  as  is  at  present  known,  lias  no  parallel  in 
our  language.^^  The  part  which  survives  shows  us  a 
satire  in  Lindsay's  manner,  where  the  troubles  of  Albion 
at  the  hands  of  Injuri  and  Division  are  expressed  almost 
as  boldly  and  bitterly  as  those  of  John  the  Commonweale. 
The  same  frequent  use  of  Latin  phrases  occurs  in  both. 
The  unpublished  morality  of  "Somebody,  Avarice  and 
Minister"  is,  according  to  Brandl,  modeled  on  Lindsay  f^ 
and  he  thinlcs  that  several  figures  of  G.  Wapull's  Tyde 
iaryeth  no  Man  (published  1576),  and  Thomas  Lnpton's 
All  for  Money  (published  1578),  correspond  wath  char- 
acters in  the  Three  Estates.  Again,  in  Preston's  Cam- 
hises,  licensed  in  1569,  a  personification  called  Commons 
Complaint^^  prefers  charges  of  venality  against  the  judge, 
much  as  John  the  Commonweale  does  in  Lindsay. 

It  was  never  possible  for  the  English  moralists  of  the 
drama  to  speak  out  for  political  reform  with  the  astonish- 
ing frankness  of  Lindsay,  Buchanan  and  Alexander.^^ 
The  monarchy  was  stronger  in  England  than  in  Scotland, 
and  in  the  northern  monarchy  court  poets  stood  far  closer 
to  the  person  of  the  king.  James  VI  always  had  a  school- 
bov's  dread  of  his  austere  tutor,  and  James  V  could  take 
plain  words  from  the  man  who  had  once  carried  him  in  his 

=^Vid.   Brandl  LV. 
^"Op.  cit.  I,  139. 

'°  Shakespeare  Society  Papers,  Vol.  I,  p.  .55. 

"  But  the  names  of  the  characters  point  to  a  direct  French  source. 
"  Manly,   Specimens  of  Pre-Shakesperean  Drama.   II,   176-7. 
"  Cf.   Buchanan's  De  Jure  Regis,   and  Alexander's   Paraenesis    to 
Prince  Henry,  both  of  which  advocate  the  murder  of  tyrants. 


INFLUENCES  ON   THE   EARLY  ENGLISH  DRAMA.         139 

arms  and  sung  him  to  sleep."^^  But  Lindsay  pointed  the 
way  which  English  jjolitical  satirists  could  endeavor  to 
follow;  and  what  they  accomplished  between  1550  and 
1580  was  largely  due  to  the  example  of  the  intrepid  Scot. 
The  Satire  of  the  Three  Estates  is  clearly  drawn  from 
French  models.  During  the  reign  of  Louis  XII  (1408- 
1515)  there  sprang  up  in  France  the  political  morality, 
unlvuown  before,  and  again  unknown  soon  after  the  acces- 
sion of  Francis  I.  Gringore,  whose  relation  to  Louis  XII, 
though  far  less  familiar,  is  analogous  to  that  of  Lindsay 
to  James  V,  was  the  exponent  of  the  new  genre.  He 
Vv'as  the  leader  of  the  Enfants-sans-Souci,  one  of  tlie 
French  mediaeval  fraternities  of  comedians.  His  L'espoir 
de  paLv,  1510,  attacks  the  Papacy  for  worldliness  and  cor- 
ruption, as  Lindsay  attacks  spirituality  in  his  first  part, 
and  the  Folles  entreprises,  1505,  attacks  princes  and  lords 
who  crush  poor  serfs  and  "vassoulx,"  as  Lindsay  attacks 
Temporality  in  his  second  part.  It  was  Gringore  who 
first  in  France  applied  the  mediaeval  drama  to  political 
ends ;  and  it  seems  to  be  from  him  that  Lindsay  took  his 
pattern.  The  work  which  directly  gave  him  a  model 
appears  to  be  Gringo  re's  Bottie.  This  was  played  in  Paris 
on  Mardi  Gras,  1511.  The  play  is  a  more  open  satire  on 
both  church  and  state  than  any  other  work  of  the  French 
poet.  Louis  XII,  the  "prince  des  Sotz,"  is  to  hold  his 
court  and  mete  out  justice  to  all  comers.  Many  characters 
arrive,  representing  the  multitudinous  vices  and  follies  of 

'*  Cf .   Lindsay's   Dreiiie:    EpistiU    io    the  Kingis   Grace,   composed 
1528: 

"Quben  thou  wes  young,  T  bure  the  in  myne  arnie, 
Full  tenderlye,  till  thou  begouth  to  gang: 
And  in  thy  bed,  oft  lappit  the  full  warme, 
With   lute  in  hand,  syne,  softlye  to  the  sang." 


140  JOHN    A.    LESTER. 

mankind,  Ignorance,  La  Paillardise  (cf.  Lindsay's  Sen- 
suality), La  Seigneur  Joye  (cf.  Lindsay's  Wantonness), 
La  Manque  de  zele  Apostolique.  Then  enters  La  Com- 
mune, representing  the  people,  and  lodges  complaints 
against  the  oppression  of  the  seigneurs  and  the  clergy. 
Last  of  all  comes  in  the  Mere  Sotte,  clad  in  the  robes  of 
Papacy,  supported  by  her  adherents.  She  preaches  to  the 
Seigneurs  and  the  Clergy,  advocating  treason  and  rebellion 
against  the  king.  A  quarrel  is  provoked,  and,  in  the 
scuffle,  below  the  garb  of  the  Pope  is  found  the  face  of 
the  fool. 

Here  we  have  the  main  features  of  Lindsay's  play, 
namely,  a  keen  satire  of  the  evils  of  church  and  state, 
under  the  figure  of  a  court,  presided  over  by  the  king 
himself,  before  which  appear  as  plaintiff  La  Commune 
(Lindsay's  John  the  Commonweale),  and  as  defendants 
the  seigneurs  and  the  prelates  (Lindsay's  Temporality  and 
Spirituality).^^  The  parallel  in  detail  is  often  striking. 
We  have  in  Gringore,  as  in  Lindsay,  the  call  of  the 
seigneurs  and  the  clergy  to  the  court, "^^  a  discussion  alwut 
the  relative  limits  of  the  jurisdiction  of  the  spiritual  and 
temporal  powers,^'  an  impeachment  of  the  morality  of 
the  clergy,^^  a  denunciation  of  plurality  and  sale  of  bene- 
fices,^' complaints  by  the  representative  of  the  people  of 
distraint  and  confiscation  of  property  by  the  church,^*^ 

"A  soinewhat  similar  mise  en  scene  is  to  be  found  in  the  first 
tale  of  The  Three  Priests  of  Peebles,  dating  perhaps  from  1535.  Cf. 
Complaynt  of  Scotland,  ed.   Murray,   CXVI,   143. 

*'CEuvres  Computes  de  Gringore  (ed.  Hericault  and  Montaiglon, 
Paris,   1858),  I,  206.     Cf.  Lindsay,  I,  469. 

"Gringore,  206,  229;  cf.  Lindsay,  73,  116. 

"Gringore,  219;  cf.  Lindsay,  388,  433,  etc. 

"•Gringore,   220;    cf.   Lindsay,   62. 

*•  Gringore,  237 ;  cf.  Lindsay,  5-7. 


INFLUENCES  ON  THE  EAKLY  ENGLISH  DKAMA.         141 

satire  against  the  abuse  of  pardons/^  and  the  final  abolition 
of  the  corrupt  clergy. '^^  Lindsay's  character  of  Divine 
Correction,  of  which  there  is  no  example  in  this  Lottie, 
seems  to  be  modeled  on  the  figure  of  Pugnicion  Divine  iu 
Gringore's  Moralite^'^  The  speech  with  which  this  abstrac- 
tion introduces  itself,  and  tells  of  the  powers  and  terrors 
with  which  it  is  armed,  is  of  the  same  character  in  each 
play.^'*  Lindsay's  Good  Counsel,  not  found  in  Gringore's 
Sottie,  is  perhaps  taken  from  his  play  of  La  Vie  de  Mou- 
se igneur  Saint  Loys^^  The  character  of  People,  not  found 
in  any  English  morality  previous  to  Lindsay,  occurs  in 
both  Gringore's  Moralite  and  in  his  Vie  de  Saint  Loys^^ 
It  has  been  said  that  Gringore  was  the  leader  of  one 
of  the  theatrical  companies  of  Paris.  This  was  the 
fraternity  of  the  Enfants-sans-Souci,  a  band  of  amateur 
comedians,  who  affected  to  regard  the  earth  as  populated 
mainly  by  fools.  Upon  their  stage  the  world  was  turned 
topsy-turvy.  The  mighty  were  put  down  from  their  seats, 
and  the  humble  were  exalted ;  but  the  change  was  nothing, 

"  Gringore,  234 ;  cf .  Lindsay,  Off. 

"Gringore,  241,  cf.  Lindsay,  108. 

"  CEuvres  Completes,  I,  244-209. 

"Gringore,  I,  251-3;   cf.  Lindsay,  I,  452.4. 

"  (Euvres  Completes,  II,  29  ff. 

"  Gringore  may  have  taken  the  idea  of  his  Sottie  from  th« 
Quadrilogue  Invectif  of  Alain  Chartier  written  in  the  third  decade 
of  the  15th  century,  and  printed  in  the  1617  edition  of  his  works, 
pp.  402-454.  This  however  is  not  a  satire  but  an  appeal  to  the 
wearied  patriotism  of  France  to  unite  against  the  English  invaders. 
Dr.  Neilson  has  shown  {Journal  of  Germ.  Phil.  I,  411fl'. ),  that  this 
is  the  source  of  the  Complaynt  of  Scotland,  which  shows  one  or 
two  striking  resemblances  to  the  Three  Estates.  These,  and  others 
of  no  significance,  as  for  instance  a  parallel  between  a  sentiment  in 
the  Complaynt  and  Lindsay's  proverb,  "Wo  to  the  realme  that  lies 
ower  young  ane  king,"  which  last  is  a  commonplace  taken  originally 
from  Eec.  X,  IG,  are  noticed  by  Leyden,  Complaynt  p.  47,  48. 


142 


JOHN    A.    LESTER. 


for  high  and  low  were  alike  fools.  Besides  the  farces  and 
sotties  which  constituted  their  stock  in  trade,  there  was  the 
sermon,  a  mock  exhortation  declaring  that  folly  was  every- 
where, that  motley  was  the  only  wear.  Instead  of  a 
Biblical  text,  the  preacher  took  as  his  theme: 

"Stultonim  mimeriis  est  iniinitus," 

which  indeed  was  the  motto  of  the  fraternity.  Lindsay's 
figure  of  Folly  plays  the  part  of  such  a  preacher,  and  the 
sermon  he  delivers  is  modeled  on  the  type  of  the  Sermon 
des  Fous.  In  parts  it  is  not  unlike  the  Sermon  Joyeux, 
printed  by  Violet-le-Duc  in  his  second  volimie,'*'  as  the 
following  lines  show: 


Lindsay  II,  148.  "Heir  sail 
Foly  begin  his  sermon  as  followis : 
"Stultorum    nunierus    infinitus." 
The  number  of  fuilles  ar  infinite. 
I  think  na  schame,  sa  Christ  me 

saife, 
To  be  ane  fuill,  among  the  laife, 
Howbeit,    ane    hundreth    standis 

heir  by 
Perventure,  ala  gret  fuillis  aa  I," 


Ane.  Th.  Fr.  II,  214. 

"Or  ca,  pro  secunda  parte 

Je  trom-e,  de  quantitate, 

Que  numerus  stultorum  est 
infinitus. 

A  savoir  men,  si  toute  arisme- 
tique 

Sgauroit  nombrer  le  sexe  fola- 
tique 

Je  ditz  que  non :  il  est  inestim- 
able. 


I  have  of  my  genelogie, 
Dwelland,  in  everie  cuntrie 


S'il  y  a  done  icy  trois  cens 
Hommes,  &  les  comprendre  tous, 
Je    dy    que    les    deux    cens    sont 
foulx." 

p.  216. 

Si    bien    nous    cherchons,     nous 

trouverons 
Foulx     a     monceaux     en     toutea 

regions. 
L'on   a   bien   veu,    par   plusieurs 

foys, 


'  Ancien  Thi&tre  FranQais    (Paris,  1854),  II,  207  ff. 


INFLUENCES  ON  THE   EARLY  ENGLISH   DKAMA.  143 

Erles,   dukis,   kingis   and   empri-        De  sotz  papes  et  de  sotz  roys. 

ouris,  Sotz  empereurs,  cardiiiaux,  areh- 

With  niony  guckit  couquerouris :  evesques, 

Quhilk   dois,   in   folie,   perseveir,       L'on  a  veu,  et  de  sotz  evesques, 
And  hes  done  sa  this  monie  yeir.       Abbez,   curez,   aussi  chanoynes 
*  *  *  *  *  "Ya  partout,  et  do  sotz  iiioynes, 

Sotz   gendarmes   et   chevaliers. 

p.  219 
Sum  dois  as  thay  suld  never  die,       Vous  aultres  qui  entendez  latin, 
Is  nocht  this  folie,  quhat  say  ye  ?       Leves  voz  cueurs,  ouyez  que  e'est : 
"Sapientia  hujus  mundi  stultitia       Sapientia   hujus  mundi   stultitia 
est  apud  Deum."  est,  etc." 

One  of  the  classes  of  fools  which  Lindsay's  Folly  goes 
on  to  satirize  is  the  class  of  cuckolds,  and  the  French 
sermon  runs  on  in  the  same  strain : 

"Ilz  ont  femme   honneste,  gracieuse, 
Belle,  plaisante,  amoureuse, 
Mesnaigfere  fort  diligente, 
Et  de  mal  au.ssi  innocente 
Que  Judas  de  la  mort  Jesus."" 

What  was  the  direct  channel  by  which  Gringore's  works 
reached  Lindsay  is  not  certain.  The  French  satirist  had, 
however,  been  made  known  in  Scotland  by  Lindsay's 
predecessor,  Barclay,  who  in  1506  published  the  Castell  of 
Lahoure,  a  translation  of  the  Frenchman's  Le  Cliasteau  de 
Labour,  1199.  Gringore  did  not  die  till  1544,  and  the 
Scot  may  have  met  him  in  France,  when  he  was  negotiating 
for  James  V  in  and  after  1531.  Gringore  as  court  poet 
was  succeeded  by  a  new  school  of  which  Ronsard  was  the 
leader.  With  Ronsard,  Lindsay  was  on  intimate  terms, 
for  they  sailed  together  to  Scotland,  when  James 
returned  with  his  second  French  bride  in  1538,  and 
Ronsard,  on  that  occasion,  remained  three  months  at  the 
Scotch  court. 

The  political  morality  was  not  the  only  form  of  the 
"  Op.  cit.  p.  210. 


144  JOHN    A.    LESTER. 

early  drama  to  flourish  north  of  the  Tweed.  Early  traces 
of  the  masque  can  be  found.  One  of  the  elements  of  the 
masque,  namely,  the  dance,  was  in  Scotland  borrowed 
very  frequently  from  France.  Early  in  the  sixteenth 
century  we  have  records  of  payments  to  Frenchmen  for 
dancing  the  morris,"^^  and  among  the  popular  sports  which 
ended  so  boisterously  at  Christis  Kirk  on  the  Grene,  it  is 
related  that 

"Auld  Lightfute  thair  he  did  forleit 
And  counterfuttet  Franss; 
He  used  himself  as  man  discreit 
And  up  tuke  Moreiss  dauss 
Full    loud 
At  Christis  Kirk  on  the  Grene  that  day.'"" 

To  judge  by  the  names  of  dances  given  in  an  old  Scotch 
poem  quoted  by  F.  Michel,^^  one  would  conclude  that  the 
majority  of  Scotch  dances  in  the  sixteenth  century  were  of 
French  origin.^^  From  other  payments  to  entertainers  it 
is  clear  that  some  of  these  dances  were  elaborate,  and 
required  special  costumes.  In  1-1:94  there  is  a  record, 
''Item,  gevin  to  Pringill,  be  a  precept  of  the  Kingis,  for 
a  liffray  to  make  a  dans  again  Uphaly  day  ^'   *   IIII  ellis 

"  March  5,  1507-8.  "To  the  French  menstrallis,  that  maid  ane 
danss  in  the  Abhey,  be  the  King's  command,  12  French  crowns. 

Dec.  5,  1512.  Payit  to  Monsur  lo  Motes  [the  French  ambassador's] 
servitouris  that  dansit  ane  Morris  to  tlie  king  10  crowns  of  wecht. 

Dec.  IG.  To  Monsur  le  Motes  servitouris  that  dansit  an  uthir 
Moriss  to  the  king  and  Queen  £5|8|0."  Vid.  Dunbar  (ed.  David 
Laing)   II.  289. 

"  Ascribed  to  James  I  of  Scotland.  Poetical  Remains  of  James  I, 
(Edinburgh,   1783),   p   170. 

"  Rise  and  Progress  of  Civilisation  in  Scotland,  p.  231.  Cf.  also  the 
long  list  of  dances,  native  and  foreign  in  Complaynt  of  Scotland,  ed. 
Murray,  Early  English  Text  Society,  p.  GO.  and  XCIV;  also  Leland 
Collectanea,  IV,  291. 

"  Scotch  dances  in  their  turn  found  their  way  into  France.  Cf. 
Michel,  Ecossais  en  France,  etc.  II.  3. 


INFLUENCES  ON  THE  EAELY  ENGLISH  DRAMA.         145 

of  taftays,  price  of  ellen  XVIII  s."^^  In  some  of  these, 
the  dancers  were  masked,^"*  as  appears  from  the  following 
entries.  In  1488,  "Item  in  Lannerisk,  to  dansaris  and 
gysaris  XXXVI  s."^^  And  in  1496,  "Item,  that  samyn 
nycht  [Dec.  27th]  giffin  to  the  gysaris  in  Melros 
XXXVI  s."^«  And  in  1504-5,  Feb.  2,  "To  the  Gysaris 
that  dansit  to  the  king  and  queen,  7  French  crowns." 

The  rapid  development  of  masquerades  in  Scotland 
during  the  last  part  of  the  aixteenth  century  was  due  in 
large  part  to  Mary  Stuart.  As  early  as  1536,  however, 
if  we  may  trust  one  of  the  manuscripts  of  Robert  Lindsay's 
Chronicles,  James  V  had  indulged  in  masking  at  the  French 
court.     He    writes,    "thair    was    nothing    bot    mirrienes, 

°^  Accounts  of  the  Lord  High  Treasurer,  ed.  T.  Dickson,  Edinburgh, 
1877,  p.  232. 

^*  Cf.  Edmonstone,  yieii' of  .  .  Zetland  Islands  (Edin.,  1809) ,  II  64. 
If  Ward  is  right  in  his  view  that  the  "masque  probably  at 
first  differed  from  the  mummings  and  disguisings  customary  before, 
by  nothing  except  the  fanciful  adjunct  of  a  mask  to  the  costume  worn 
by  the  participant"  {Op.  cit.  I,  150) ,  there  is  no  reason  to  insist  on  the 
Italian  origin  of  tlie  masque  so  strongly  as  he  does.  The  actual 
mask  for  the  face  is  one  of  the  oldest  elements:  (vid.  Dueange 
"larvae,"  "larvarium,"  "cervula").  Cf.  Brotanek  Die  Englischen 
Maskenspiele  1902,  p.  3,  and  4  n.;  and  the  illustrations  of  masked 
figures  in  Strutt,  Sports  and  Pastimes  (new  ed.  L.  1903),  plates 
opposite  pp.  138,  202;  and  Ed.  Fdurnier  Le  Th.  Fr.  avant  la  Renais- 
sance, plate  opposite  p.  333.  Cf.  also  Hugh  Haliburton  (pseudo.  for 
J.  L.  Robertson),  Furth  in  Field  (L.  1894),  p.  26  s.  v.  Hogmanay. 
The  masks,  even  in  early  times,  were  sometimes  human ;  vid.  Brotanek 
p.  6.  Masquerades  and  plays  ("larvales  et  theatrales  jocos")  were 
forbidden  in  France  by  the  Council  of  Bale  1436;  and  the  custom  of 
masking  the  face  had  gone  so  far  in  France  before  the  earliest  date 
set  for  the  Italian  masque  by  Symonds,  viz.  1474,  (Shakspere's 
Predecessors,  L.  1884,  I.  321),  that  the  society  of  Basochiens  in  Paris 
used  masks  reproducing  the  features  of  well-known  people. 

"  Accounts  of  the  Lord  High  Treasurer  of  Scotland,  ed.  T.  Dickson 
I.,    (1473—1498)    p.  93. 

"'/d.,  p.  308. 

lo 


146  JOHN  A.   LESTER. 

bancatting  and  great  cheir  *  *  *  with  great  musick 
and  playing  on  instruments  and  tryme"^^  danceing  be  the 
sound  of  instrumentis  playand  melodiouslie  witht  gallzart 
dancing  in  messerie  [MS.  I.  has  ^maistrie'  or  'maskrie;' 
Freebairn  reads  'masks'],  and  prattie  frassis  [I.  has 
*pheirsis'  =  farces]  and  pleyis.'"^^  Mary  Queen  of  Scots 
was  greeted  with  a  brilliant  pageant  at  her  wedding  with 
Francis  II  ;^'^  and,  naturally,  on  her  return  to  her  own 
country,  she  wished  to  emulate  the  splendor  of  the  conti- 
nent. She  brought  with  her  to  Scotland  such  Frenchmen 
as  Ronsard,  Guillaume  Barclay,  and  James  Crichton. 
When  she  entered  Edinburgh  in  1561,  there  were  various 
dramatic  entertainments  modeled  on  those  of  France.  To 
quote  the  blunt  words  of  Knox,  ''Great  preparations  war 
maid  for  hir  enteress  in  the  town.  In  ferses,  in  masking 
and  in  other  prodigalities,  faine  wold  fooles  have  counter- 
footed  France."^*^  Before  this  time,  pageants  and  public 
spectacles  with  some  dramatic  action  had  been  introduced 
into  Scotland.  Lindsay  was  in  Paris  at  the  marriage 
of  King  James  V  to  Madeline,  and  must  have  seen  the 
devices  so  quaintly  described  by  his  namesake.  He 
profited  by  his  experience  in  France  to  devise  plays  himself 
in  honor  of  Madeline  after  his  return,  and  though  she  died 
before  the  occasion  for  their  production,  he  wrote  a 
Deploratioun  of  the  death  of  Queen  Magdalene, ^^  a  large 


"  Trim. 

='  Op.  cit.  I.  359. 


"  For  a  contemporary  account  of  these  "triumphes  et  mommeryes," 
vid.  Teulet,  Papiers  d'  Flat  relatifs  d  I'Hisioire  de  VEcosse,  I.  300-303. 

'"History  of  the  Reformation,  (Works  ed.  Laing,  Edin.,  1848),  II. 
287.  Calderwood,  History  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotlatid  (Edin..  1843). 
II.  154  (written  in  the  first  half  of  the  17th  cent.),  uses  the  same 
expression,   evidently  borrowing  it   from   Knox. 

"Works   (ed.  Chalmers),  II.   179-189. 


INFLUENCES   ON   THE   EAKLY   ENGLISH   DRAMA.         147 

part  of  wliicli  is  merely  a  description  of  the  plays  and 
pageants  lie  had  devised  to  2)lcase  her.  The  arrival  of 
the  new  bride,  Mary  of  Guise,  gave  him  another  chance. 
When  the  new  queen  landed  in  Scotland  the  king  met  her, 
"and  ressaved  her  with  great  joy  and  mirrines,  of  fearssis 
and  plays  maid  and  prepared  for  her."  Next  day  the 
queen  "confessed  to  the  king  that  shoe  never  saw  in  France 
so  many  pleasant  fearsis  in  so  little  rowme,  as  shoe  did  that 
day  in  Scotland."^^ 

But  after  the  middle  of  the  century  masquerades  no 
less  than  puLlic  pageants  grew  in  elaborateness  and  in 
popularity  in  Scotland.  If  the  masking  of  1561,  as  Knox 
says,  Avas  in  imitation  of  that  of  France,  the  pageantry 
with  which  Mary  was  actually  welcomed  in  the  streets 
was  also  French.  The  account  of  it,  as  given  in  the 
Diurnall  of  Occurrenis  of  Scotlandf'^  yields  several  points 
of  resemblance  with  the  fete  given  in  honor  of  the  court 
at  Rouen  in  1550.  The  years  between  1561,  when  Mary 
entered  Edinburgh,  and  1567,  when  she  married  Bothwell, 
were  full  of  masquerades  of  great  splendor.  In  the 
Autumn  of  1561  was  played  at  Holy  rood  the  masquerade 
of  which  the  verses  remain  in  Buchanan's  "pompa,"  Apollo 
et  Miisae  Exules.  In  Noveml>er  of  the  same  year,  there 
was  an  equestrian  spectacle,  probably  accompanied  by  a 
masquerade. ^'^  The  masquerade  at  the  marriage  of  tlie 
Earl  of  Murray  in  the  next  year,  noticed  in  the  Diurnall 
of  Occurrents,'^'^   gave   Knox   another  opportunity  for   a 

^-Robert  Lindsay,  Vhronwlvf^  of  Hcutlund  (Sc.  T.  S.,  Ediii.,  1899), 
II.  380. 

"Ed.  Thomson    (Edinburgh,  1833),  p.  67  ff. 

"*  Buchanan,  Reriiin  Scot.  Hist.  XVII  caj).  XI,  mentions  "luda  et 
convivia,"  as  part  of  the  entertainment. 

"p.  71. 


148  JOHN   A.   LESTER. 

sneer,^^  There  was  a  masquerade  of  shepherds  at  mid- 
winter in  1563,^"  and  at  Shrovetide  next  year  a  masque- 
rade of  great  magnificence,  with  verses  by  Buchanan.  A 
three-day  spectacle  celebrated  Mary's  marriage  with 
Darnley  in  1565,  with  another  equestrian  performance  ;°* 
and  next  year  the  Queen  and  her  ladies  appeared  in  the 
disguise  of  men  in  a  masquerade  at  Holyrood. 

These  masquerades  were  often  planned  by  Frenchmen 
in  attendance  on  Scotch  j)rinces  or  lords.  In  1566  the 
young  prince  James  was  baptized  at  Stirling.  Court 
festivities  were  arranged  for  the  occasion,  and  Buchanan 
vn'ote  some  Latin  verses  to  be  spoken  by  the  participants.*^^ 
But  tlie  planning  of  the  action  disguises  and  machinery 
was  all  done  by  a  Trenchman  called  Bastion  Pagez.  The 
complexity  of  tlie  masquerade  is  remarkable  for  so  early 
a  period,  and  recalls  the  masques  of  the  early  Stuarts. 
Hidden  machinery  was  devised,  which  caused  the  feast  to 
come  in  on  moving  tables.  Before  them  marched  a  pro- 
cession of  rural  gods,  each  of  whom  turned  to  the  dais, 
where  royalty  sat,  and  recited  his  verses.  Satyrs,  naiads 
and  oreads  addressed  the  prince;  nereids  and  fauns  the 
queen.  At  this  point  the  satyrs  indiscreetly  or  impu- 
dently,— it  does  not  appear  which, — wagged  their  tails. 
The  English  embassy  took  offence,  and  the  masquerade 
was  interrupted.  When  quiet  was  restored,  there  was  a 
sudden  discharge  of  fireworks  from  a  mimic  fortress. 
This  was  a  signal  for  the  arrival  of  bands  of  "Moors, 
Highlanders,    Centaurs,   Lanzknechts   and   Fiends,"   who 

•«WorA-s,  II.  314.     Vid.  also  319. 

•^Vid.  J.  Robertson  Inventories  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  p.  136. 

•'  For  a  figure  from  a  similar  French  spectacle,  the  picture  of  the 
Duke  of  Guise  commanding  a  quadrille  of  American  savages,  vid. 
Pongin,  Dictionnaire  du  Tlu'utre,  p.   147. 

«» These  are  extant:  Omnia  Opera  (1725),  II.  404-5. 


INFLUENCES  ON   THE  EARLY  ENGLISH  DRAMA.        149 

stroA^e  for  the  possession  of  the  fort.'^*'  This  performance 
has  the  marks  of  the  French  renaissance  court  masque- 
rades. Satyrs  had,  it  is  true,  appeared  in  early  Scotch 
religious  drama,^^  but  not  in  company  with  fauns,  oreads 
and  the  rest.  It  is  not  more  complex  than  many  other 
Scotch  masquerades  of  the  same  time,  and  attracted  the 
attention  of  chroniclers,^^  not  because  it  surpassed  others, 
but  because  it  vexed  the  English,  and  caused  a  disturbance 
which  nearly  resulted  in  bloodshed. 

When  Mary  left  Scotland,  and  her  household  of  foreign 
servants  and  attendants  was  dispersed,  the  Holyrood 
masquerade,  as  we  should  expect,  declined.  It  still 
existed,  however.  "It  may  haply  fall  out,"  writes  Robert 
Bower  to  Walsingham,  on  Feb.  7,  1580-1,  "that  *  *  * 
some  strange  mask  may  be  seen  in  this  Lent  in  Holyrood 
House."'^^  And  the  splendor  to  which  it  had  already 
attained    in   Scotland   must   be   taken   into   consideration 

™ Robertson,  Innventories  of  Queen  Mary,  LXXXXI. 

^  In  a  mystery  of  1442  in  Aberdeen.  Vid.  Joseph  Robertson,  Book 
of  Bon-Accord,  p.  236.  A.  S.  wudu-wasa  is  satirus  (Prompt.  Parr.  p. 
531).  This  is  M.  E.  wodwos,  (Gaw.  and  Gr.  Kn.  721;  Alex,  1540), 
wodewese  or  woodwose.  This  is  popularized  into  woodhouse  or 
woodman.  The  Scotch  form,  wodmen,  in  the  mystery  above  referred 
to,  (pointing  to  A.  S.  wod-wasa),  is  much  earlier  than  the  first 
appearance  of  the  "salvadge  man,"  (at  Christmas,  1514-15,  vid. 
Collier,  1.  69;  Sp.  hombre  salvaje),  which  is  the  form  often  taken  by 
the  satyr  in  continental  and  English  renaissance  drama.  Thorndike 
in  Puh.  of  Mod.  Lang.  Ass.  Vol.  XV,  p.  118,  attempts  to  fix  an  early 
limit  for  the  Winter^s  Tale  from  its  antimasque  of  satyrs,  which 
he  conjectvires  was  suggested  by  the  similar  masque  in  Jouson's 
Masque  of  Oberon,  Jan.  1,  1611.  It  should  be  noted,  however,  that 
the  satyr  is  one  of  the  commonest  characters  in  masquerades;  and 
that  satyr-dances  were  known  in  the  French  "mascarades"  as  early 
as  1581.  Vid  Laeroix,  Ballets  et  Mascarades  de  Cour  (Geneve, 
1868), 1.  53,  56. 

^^  Such  as  Sir  James  Melvil,  Mciiioircs  3rd  ed.,  Glas.,  1751,  p.  150. 

"  Calendar  of  State  Papers  ( 1907) ,  V.   619. 


150  JOHN   A.   LESTER. 

when  an  explanation  is  sought  for  the  great  development 
of  the  masque  after  the  two  crowns  had  been  united.  As 
soon  as  James  I  came  to  the  throne,  the  masque  developed 
rapidly.^"*  Of  all  English  courts,  that  of  James  was  most 
attached  to  this  form  of  dramatic  entertainment.  This 
was  due  to  his  love  of  pageantry,''^  and  to  the  passion  for 
a  certain  aspect  of  classicism,  caught  from  his  tutors, 
whose  minds  were  furnished  with  all  the  classical  appara- 
tus of  French  scholar-poets.  The  royal  taste  for  the 
classics  was  a  narrow  one,  and  the  dramatic  form  which 
best  satisfied  it  was  one  which  showed  most  strikingly  the 
figures  of  Greek  and  Roman  mythology.  This  could  best 
be  done  in  the  way  in  which  Ben  Jonson  and  her  assistants 
did  it,  namely,  by  bringing  to  the  aid  of  poetry  cast  in 
dramatic  form,  and  written  in  this  quasi-classical  manner, 
striking  scenery  and  novel  machinery. 

James'  queen,  Anne  of  Denmark,  was  an  ardent  lover  of 
masques.  Her  love  of  splendid  entertainments  and 
pageantry  had  been  fostered  by  such  spectacles  as  those 
of  1590,  when  she  was  received  by  the  citizens  of  Edin- 
burgh with  pantomimes  and  pageants  at  a  greater  cost 
than  had  ever  been  bestowed  on  any  English  or  Scotch 
queen.'^^  At  the  English  court  her  love  of  such  festivities 
soon  obtained  full  gratification,  and  she  displayed  her  great 
skill  in  dancing  in  masques  prepared  by  Jonson  and 
Daniel.  Jonson,  indeed,  often  refers  to  the  queen  as  the 
prime  luover  in  deciding  the  nature  which  his  masques 
were  to  take.     Thus  he  says,  in  the  introduction  to  the 

'*  Cf.  Johnson's  Encyclopedia,  article  Masque  by  G.  P.  Baker. 

"  Vid.  the  account  of  the  pageant  at  his  entry  into  Edinburgh, 
Oct.  17,  1579.  Calderwood  History  of  the  Kirk  of  Scotland  (Edin., 
1843),  p  458. 

'"Queens  of  Scotland,  Strickland    (1851),  V.  40. 


INFLUENCES  ON   THE  EARLY   ENGLISH   DRAMA.         151 

Masque  of  Blackness :'^'^  ''Hence  (because  it  was  her 
majesty's  Avill  to  have  them,  [i.  e.,  the  (laughters  of  Niger] 
blackmoors  at  first)  the  invention  was  derived  by  me." 
And  again,  in  the  introduction  to  the  Masque  of  Queens, 
"Her  majesty  (best  knowing  that  a  principal  part  of 
life,  in  these  spectacles,  lay  in  their  variety),  had  com- 
manded me  to  think  on  some  dance  or  show  that  might 
precede  hers,  and  have  the  place  of  a  foil  or  false 
masque."^^  Gifford  says  that  Queen  Anne  had  been 
regaled  in  Scotland  with  nothing  better  than  "one  goodly 
ballad  called  Philotas"  or  the  ribaldry  of  the  Lion  King, 
as  his  countrymen  delight  to  call  Sir  David  Lindsay,  in 
the  interminable  "Satyre  of  the  Three  Eistatis."'*  Queen 
Anne  would  have  been  badly  off  indeed  if  this  had  been 
all  her  entertainment  in  Scotland.  She  could  never 
have  seen  Lindsay's  Satire  acted,  for  the  last  recorded 
performance  was  at  Greenside,  in  1554  ;  and  it  is  extremely 
doubtful  if  Philotas  was  ever  performed  at  all.  But  her 
knowledge  and  love  of  the  masque  may  not  improbably 
be  referred  to  the  court  pageants  and  masquerades  per- 
formed during  her  thirteen  years  of  residence  at  the  Scotch 
court. 

In  conclusion  it  may  be  noted  that  the  vital  element 
in  the  development  of  the  masque,  namely,  dialogue,  first 
appearing,  according  to  Soergel,^°  in  1604-5,  and  accord- 
ing to  Brotanek,  in  conjunction  with  the  other  elements, 
in  1595,  is  to  be  found  forty  years  before  in  the  remnants 
of  Buchanan's  pompae,  consisting  of  Latin  verses  written 
for  the  Holyrood  masqueraders. 

^^  Works    (ed.  Cunningham),  VII,  6. 
"  Works,  VIII,  107. 

"Ben  Jonson's  Works  (L.  1816),  VI,  468. 
'^  Die  Englischen  Maskenspielc,  p.  27. 


152  JOHN  A.  LESTER. 

In  the  Pompa  Deorum,  played  at  Mary's  wedding  with 
Darnley,  Diana  begins  with  a  complaint  that  love  and 
marriage  are  claiming  one  of  her  five  Maries.  Juno  and 
Venus  reply  to  her,  ridiculing  her  gi'ief,  for  as  for  them 
love  and  wedlock  is  their  care.  Pallas,  Saturn  and  other 
gods  answer  Diana  in  the  same  strain,  and  Jupiter  replies 
that  the  five  maids  are  worthy  of  marriage,  and  dismisses 
the  complaint.^^ 

The  limits  of  this  paper  forbid  the  tracing  further  of 
indirect  influences  in  this  channel  on  the  early  English 
drama.  But  enough  has  been  said  to  show  the  close  rela- 
tion between  political  morality  and  court  masquerades  in 
Scotland  and  in  France,  and  the  interesting  relation  these 
bear  to  the  corresponding  forms  in  England. 

"  Opera  Omnia,  1725,  II,  400  ff. 


HEINE  AND  TENNYSON : 
AN  ESSAY  IN  COMPARATIVE  CRITICISM. 


By  Charles  Wharton  Stork,  Ph.D. 


HEINE  AND  TENNYSON.     AN  ESSAY  IN  COM- 
PAEATIVE  CRITICISM. 

The  Englishman  or  American  who  compares  literary 
notes  with  a  native  of  continental  Europe  is  always 
surprised  to  find  what  English-writing  authors  are  admired 
abroad.  For  instance,  a  German  remarlced  to  me  that 
our  three  greatest  geniuses  were  properly  appreciated  only 
in  Germany,  the  three  being  Shakespeare,  Byron  and  Oscar 
Wilde.  Seldom  indeed  is  it  that  the  foreigner  has  read 
Spenser,  Milton  or  Wordsworth,  noblest  representatives  of 
our  native  Parnassus.  It  is  evident,  therefore,  that  many 
of  the  poets  we  most  admire  are  somehow  outside  the 
interest  of  the  cultured  continent.  A  Shakespeare,  a 
Dante  or  a  Goethe  can 

"pass  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time," 

but  in  the  class  immediately  following,  the  writer's 
nationality  often  excludes  him  from  his  proper  place  in 
the  world  literature.  This  is  peculiarly  true  of  English 
authors,  whose  "insularity"  is  so  strongly  marked  as  to 
be  proverbial.  Conversely,  certain  continental  writers 
never  obtain  proper   recognition  in  England. 

We  must  all  be  aware  of  these  two  contrasting  types  in 
modern  literature,  the  exclusively  continental  and  the 
exclusively  English.  We  deny,  for  instance,  that  Swin- 
burne is  in  the  narrower  sense  an  English  poet,  and  we 
feel  in  reading  such  an  author  as  D'Annunzio  that,  despite 
his  harmonies  of  language,  he  represents  an  artistic  code 
which  is  distasteful  to  us  because  it  violates  our  innate 
sense  of  fitness.  Abstractions  are  futile.  We  therefore 
choose  as  examples  of  their  respective  schools,  Heine  and 

(155) 


156  CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK. 

Tennyson.  Probably  no  modern  lyrist  is  so  widely  accepted 
on  the  continent  as  Heine,  whereas  we  of  the  narrower 
Anglo-Saxon  traditions  find  our  most  intimate  ideals 
expressed  in  the  music  of  Tennyson. 

The  fact  that  first  arrests  our  attention  is  that  Heine 
had  already  written  all  the  poems  which  have  made  him 
famous  by  the  time  he  was  twenty-six.  Some  dozen 
familiar  songs  and  ballads  fall  within  the  next  five  years, 
but  even  here  the  productions  are  in  the  main  but  repeti- 
tions of  the  more  spontaneous  and  exquisite  melodies  from 
the  poet's  youthful  "Buch  der  Lieder."  \Yhere  do  we 
find  anything  more  direct  than  the  following  from  Heine's 
earliest  period  ? 

"Wenn  ich  bei  meiner  Liebsten  bin 
Dann  geht  das  Heiz  mir  auf; 
Dann  bin  ich  reich  in  meinem  Sinn, 
Icli  biet  die  Welt  zu  Kauf. 

Doch  wenn  ich  wieder  scheiden  muss 

Aus  ihrem  Schwanenarm, 
Dann    schwindet    all    mein    Uberfluss, 

Und  ich  bin  bettelarm." 

In  the  same  series  come  "Wenn  junge  Herzen  brechen," 
and  soon  after,  certainly  Avritten  by  the  time  he  was  twenty, 
"Die  Grenadiere."  All  the  other  incomparable  songs 
follow  in  the  "Lyrisches  Intermezzo"  and  "Die  Heimkehr" 
from  1822  to  1824.^  To  be  sure  we  have  later  some 
spirited  ballads,  e.  g.,  Schelm  von  Bergen,  Schlachtfeld  bei 
Hastings,  Konig  Richard,  and  Rudel  und  Melisande; 
but  to  my  thinking  Der  Asra  is  the  only  one  that  brims 
over  with  the  old  pulsating  fire.  For  the  rest  his  only 
sincere  note  is  one  of  regret  for  Germany  and  his  early 
love.     His  satires  and  occasional  verse  may  be  interesting 

'Heine  was  born  December  13th,  1799. 


HEINE    AND    TENNYSON.  157 

to  the  special  student  of  German  literature;  they  have 
nothing  to  detain  the  lover  of  belles  lettres. 

But  what  were  the  qualities  which  won  the  poet  his 
laurels  at  such  an  early  age  ?  The  subject  matter  of  his 
masterpiece  falls  into  two  classes:  first,  youthful  love, 
happy  or  unhappy;  and  secondly,  the  ballad,  always 
strongly  personal.  His  genius,  in  brief,  is  his  personality, 
for  as  he  changes  from  passionate  German  sincerity  to 
the  coldness  of  the  Paris  roue,  the  glamour  fades  and 
vanishes. 

"Wermut  sind  die  letzten  Tropfen 
In  der  Liebe  Goldpokale." 

Heine  was  disappointed  in  what  we  may  assume  was 
the  one  deep  ideal  love  he  experienced.  The  motive  of 
the  heroine  marrying  a  man  of  straw,  and  being  finally 
claimed  by  her  affinity,  the  hero,  under  tragic  cir- 
cumstances occurs  not  only  in  numerous  lyrics,  but  also 
in  Heine's  two  youthful  tragedies.  This  devil's  marriage 
of  the  beloved  was  a  thought  he  could  not  escape,  and  he 
rings  insistent  changes  on  the  theme.  But  then  come 
happier,  quieter  loves,  full  of  rich  imagination  and  tender 
fancy.  These  are  the  poems  which  Heine  himself,  in 
a  preface  written  many  years  later,  describes  as  "eine 
Art  Volkslieder  der  neueren  Gesellschaft."  And  as  such 
we  recognize  them.  They  have  the  poet's  native  ecstasy 
restrained,  as  we  so  often  feel  ourselves  to  be,  by  the  deli- 
cate conventions  of  the  drawing-room.  Imagine  Burns 
discarding  his  homespun  and  adopting  the  dress,  manners 
and  speech  of  the  Edinburgh  aristocracy,  or  conceive  of 
Percy's  Reliques  translated  into  the  metre  of  Waller. 
The  decorous  Heine  loves  in  very  truth,  but  he  -s^dll  not 
fall  down  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress  while  "der  Garten 
ist  voller  Lent'."     The  idea  was  a  new  one,  this  bringing  of 


158  CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK. 

sentiment  into  the  very  stronghold  of  sentimentality,  and 
Heine,  like  all  great  innovators,  left  his  successors  to  imi- 
tate what  they  could  never  surpass.  Here  is  the  quin- 
tessence of  the  whole  in  two  quatrains : 

"Die  Jahre  kommen  imd  gehen, 
Geschlechter   steigen   ins   Grab, 
Doch  iiininier  vergeht  die  Liebe 
Die  icli  im  Herzen  liab'. 

Nur   einmal    miicht   ich    dich   sehen 

Und   sinken    vor   dir  aufs   Knie 
Und  sterbend  zu   dir  sprechen: 

'Madam,   icli   liebe  Sie.' " 

We  can  hardly  realize  how  startling  to  Heine's  contem- 
poraries was  the  beautiful  irony  of  the  change  from  the 
"du"  of  the  lover  immemorial  to  the  "sie"  of  polite 
address. 

But  later,  especially  after  Heine's  removal  to  Paris,  the 

amours  became  even  lighter  and  less  satisfying.     I  quote 

the    following   not   for    its    sordidness    but   to    illustrate 

Heine's  decline.     The  date  is   1829,  before  his  settling 

.  in  Paris,  and  soon  after  his  brightest  blossom-period : 

"In  welche   soil   ich   mich   verlieben, 
Da  beide  liebenswiirdig  sind? 
Ein  schijnes  AVeib  ist  noch  die  Mutter, 
Die  Tochter  ist  ein   schones   Kind. 

Die   weissen,   unerfahrncn    Glieder 

Sie   sind   so   ruhrend    anzusehn! 
Doch  reizend  sind  geniale  Angen, 

Die  unsre  Zartlichkeit  verstehn. 

Es  gleicht  mein  Herz  dem  grauen   Freunde, 

Der  zwischen  zwei  Gebiindel   Heu 
Nachsinnlich    griibelt   welcli    von   beiden 

Das   allerbeste    Futter   sei." 


HEINE    AND    TENNYSON.  159 

Heine  had  already  burned  himself  out  and,  with  charac- 

teristie  frankness,  was  ready  to  admit  it. 

"Doch  wenn  ich  den  Sieg  geniesse, 
Fehlt  das  beste  iiiir  dabei, 
1st  es  die  verschwundne,  siisse, 
Blode  Jugend-Eselei?" 

Another  even  more  striking  example  of  the  way  Heine 
came  to  regard  his  most  sacred  emotions  is  the  poem 
"Frieden"  from  the  Kordsee  series.  Here,  after  relating 
a  marvelous  vision  of  Christ  moving  across  the  waters, 
the  writer  suddenly  turns  and  asks,  "Which  of  you 
Berliner  poetasters  could  conceive  such  a  vision  as  that  V 
The  effect  is  indescribably  banal. 

As  Heine  brought  the  direct  emotion  of  the  popular 
ballad  into  modern  society,  he  infused  reciprocally  a 
modern,  personal  element  into  his  ballads.  Every 
observer  has  noted  that  the  Lorelei  begins  with  "ich," 
and  Die  Wallfahrt  nach  Kevlaar  has  a  psychological  inti- 
macy beyond  that  of  any  other  ballad  ever  written.  Yet 
Heine's  ballads,  even  as  ballads,  are  thoroughly  successful. 
The  reason  is  that  in  them  the  feeling  is  not  merely 
poignantly  personal,  the  inspiration  roots  rather  in  that 
deeper  poetic  nature  which  touches  the  springs  of  all 
human  passion,  that  of  the  peasant  as  well  as  that  of  the 
aesthete.     Take,  for  example,  the  following: 

DIE    BOTSCUAFT. 

Mein  Knecht!   steh  auf  und  sattle  schnell, 

Und  wirf  didi  auf  dein  Ross, 
Und  jage  rasch  durch  Wald  und  Feld 

Nacli  Konig  Duncan's  Schloss. 

Dort  sehleiche  in  den   Stall,  und  wart. 

Bis  dieh  der  Stallbub  soliaut. 
Den  forsch  mir  aus:     "Sprieh,  welche  ist 

Von  Duncan's  Tochtern  Braut?" 


IGO  CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK.  * 

Und  spricht  der  Bub'  "Die  Braune  ist's," 

So  bring  mir  schnell  die  Mar. 
Doch  spricht  der  Bub  "die  Blonde  ist's," 

So  eilt  Das  nicht  so  sehr. 

Dann  geh'  zu  Meister  Seiler  bin 

Und  kauf  mir  einen  Strick, 
Und  reite  langsam,  sprich  keiu  Wort, 

Und  bring  mir  den  zuriiek. 

This  has  the  true  Percy  ring  with  even  greater  intensity. 
And  there  is  that  most  simple  and  inevitable  of  all,  ''Es 
war  ein  alter  Konig."  Pater  says  that  what  the  artist 
gives  the  world  is  himself,  and  Heine  gives  this  self  nobly 
and  fnlly  in  his  earliest  emotions.  With  him  far  more 
than  with  Byron  who  coined  the  phrase,  "Poetry  is  pas- 
sion," This  self-revelation  is  his  strength,  but  it  is  also 
his  weakness ;  his  strength  when  the  emotions  spring  forth 
strong  and  pure,  his  weakness  when  they  sink  into  slug- 
gishness or  stagnate  with  the  scum  of  satiety. 

Turning  now  to  Tennyson,  in  the  metrical  experiments 
written  before  he  came  of  age  we  find  the  incipient  germ 
of  a  poet  and  one  undoubted  poetic  achievement,  Mariana. 
Two  years  later  follow  ffinone,  The  Lady  of  Shalott,  A 
Dream  of  Fair  Women  and  The  Lotos  Eaters,  proving 
the  writer  a  master  beyond  all  question,  but  still  leaving 
his  rank  in  doubt.  Only  with  the  volume  published  at 
the  age  of  thirty-three  could  it  be  said:  "A  great  poet 
has  been  born  into  the  world."  And  from  that  time  on, 
if  there  was  no  marked  advance,  there  was  continued  pro- 
duction of  a  high  order.  We  have  certainly  in  our 
English  master  a  steady  development  from  youth  to  man- 
hood, and  a  long  period  of  sustained  activity.  Tennyson 
is  essentiall}^  a  descriptive  and  reflective  poet,  appealing 
to  our  contemplative  nature  where  Heine  appeals  to  our 


HEINE    AND    TENNYSON.  161 

emotions.  For  whenever  Tennyson  attempts  to  describe 
intense  emotion  he  always  fails  to  master  it,  and  instead 
of  carrying  ns  forward  with  him,  merely  stands  still  and 
marks  time.  Note  some  of  his  failures  in  this  respect, 
e.  g.,  his  handling  of  the  Tristram  story,  or  the  conclusion 
to  The  Death  of  ffinone.  Fortunately  Tennyson  usually 
knows  how  to  moderate  his  passion  till  it  is  well  within 
his  control  and  moves  the  delicate  engine  of  his  verse 
in  perfect  rhythm.  How  he  might  rage  in  Pelleas  and 
Ettarre,  how  he  might  storm  in  Guinevere ;  but  he  softens, 
idealizes,  and  the  result  is  beautiful.  We  have  only  to 
look  at  the  conception  of  Morris  to  see  what  an  unreal 
figure  is  Tennyson's  Guinevere,  which  has  so  much  of 
sentimental  charm  and  so  little  of  human  nature.  She 
never  could  have  been  rude  or  womanly  enough  to  have 
defended  her  woman's  nature  while  she  maintained, 

"Nevertheless  yoii,  0  sir  Gawaine,  lie." 

The  greatest  harm  one  can  do  a  poet  is  to  praise  him  for 
qualities  which  he  has  not,  and  in  Tennyson's  case  we  had 
best  admit  that  he  is  never  properly  dramatic,  never 
depicts  real,  naked  passion. 

The  two  men  are  as  different  as  can  be  imagined,  and 
it  must  be  confessed  our  instinctive  preference  will  almost 
surely  be  for  Heine.  Frankly,  I  believe  him  to  be  the 
greater  poet,  but  by  no  means  in  a  higher  class  than  his 
less  emotional  rival.  However,  the  question  of  priority 
need  not  detain  us  here  where  the  essential  object  is  to 
define  the  types.  Heine  carries  us  by  storm ;  the  style  is 
direct,  the  response  immediate.  So  irresistible  is  the 
passion  that  w^e  do  not  read  Heine,  we  are  Heine,  are  in 
love,  sharing  every  rapture  and  torture  of  the  gamut. 
No  such  love  poetry  has  been  written  since  Catullus. 
II 


162  CHAELES  WHAKTOJf  STOEK. 

Dante  is  more  mystic,  Petrarch  more  formal,  no  other  so 
palpitatingly  real.     Quotation  alone  can  do  him  justice: 

"Mit  deinen  blauen  Augen 
Siehst  du  mich  lieblich  an, 
Da  ward  mir  so  traumend  zu  Sinne, 
Das8  ich  nicht  sprechen  kann. 

An  deine  blauen  Augen 

Gedenk  ich  allenvarta:  — 
Ein  Meer  von  blauen  Gedanken 

Ergiesst   sich   liber   mein   Herz." 

Plere  Heine  reaches  the  absolute,  but  if  we  ask  what 
else  he  has  done  in  the  field  of  poetry,  the  answer  must 
be  ''l!iothing  that  the  world  would  not  only  too  willingly  let 
die."  Love  lyrics,  love  ballads,  love  dramas  and  this  love 
of  one  sort  only,  the  passionately  sensuous. 

Tennyson  also  is  a  love  poet,  but  of  how  different  a 
nature  I  He  is  never  direct,  always  a  trifle  sentimen- 
talized and,  as  we  read  him,  always  objective.  The  dif- 
ference between  the  poets  is  not  merely  one  of  personality, 
important  as  that  may  be;  the  difference  is  even  more 
largely  one  of  education  and  environment.  Heine's  full- 
grown  love  poetry  is  the  result  of  the  continental  regime 
which  brings  the  young  man  immediately  into  the  most 
intimate  and  passionate  relations  with  women,  leaving  no 
room  for  sentimentalism.  Tennyson,  on  the  contrary, 
trained  in  accordance  wdth  the  accepted  English  traditions, 
spent  his  youth  among  other  young  men,  associated  with 
girls  as  with  comrades,  and  gazed  upon  woman  in  general 
with  the  eye  that  admires  much  but  understands  very 
little.  So  far,  from  the  artist's  standpoint,  the  odds  are 
all  in  favor  of  the  continent,  but  Heine's  further  progress 
is  one  of  disillusionment;  he  drained  the  cup  at  the  first 
draught,  and  as  a  result  we  find  at  thirty  Tennyson  mel- 


HEINE    AND    TENNYSON.  163 

lowed  and  Heine  embittered.  To  be  sure,  youthful  love 
is  the  most  exciting  to  read  of,  and  we  can  well  understand 
that  a  man  brought  up  under  the  continental  regime 
might  fail  to  be  charmed  by  such  characteristically  English 
lines  as  those  of  Herrick : 

"I  dare  not  ask  a  kiss." 

But  if  this  be  the  case,  how  much  of  true  beauty  and  purity 
the  man  of  the  continent  misses !  What  pathos  is  more 
tender  than  that  of  Elaine,  of  Qilnone  ?  What  pastorals 
more  charming  than  The  Miller's  Daughter  and  Dora  ? 
Locksley  Hall  and  Maud  delight  us  perennially  with  their 

"Passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 

Through  all  the  years  of  April  blood." 

And  although  these  two  great  loA^e  poems  are  so  peculiarly 
English,  they  contain  a  world  of  beauty  for  all  who  may 
be  wise  enough  to  take  it. 

Unfortunately  the  appreciation  of  one  artist  often  pre- 
vents our  doing  justice  to  another,  and  in  such  cases  it  is 
always  the  quieter  genius  that  suffers.  He  who  admires 
a  Velasquez  will  hardly  take  time  afterwards  to  enjoy  an 
Andrea  del  Sarto.  We  should,  therefore,  if  we  wish  to 
be  fair,  give  special  attention  to  the  calmer  style.  We 
have  observed  the  effect  of  their  environment  on  the  two 
poets  and  have  seen  that  the  English  mode  of  life,  though 
less  stimulating  at  first,  has  in  the  long  run  its  compen- 
sations. To  understand  these  the  foreign  critic  may  need 
to  cultivate  a  wider  range  of  responsiveness  in  order  to 
feel  the  fascination  of  an  author  with  whose  point  of 
view  he  is  not  naturally  in  sympathy. 

But  admitting  that  Heine  is  the  superior  as  a  votary 
of  Erato,  we  must  give  Tennyson  the  credit  of  being  more 
impartial  in  his  courtship  of  the  Muses.     How  far  above 


164:  CHARLES  WHAETON  STORK. 

Heine's  bitter  partisan  satire  are  Tennyson's  "Love  thou 
thy  land"  and  those  stirring  patriotic  ballads,  The  Revenge 
and  The  Defense  of  Lucknow,  ISTo  doubt  violence  was 
required  during  Heine's  lifetime  to  arouse  the  supine,  but 
Heine  resembles  the  French  Revolution  in  that  he  profanes 
more  than  he  purifies.  German  critics  try  very  laudably 
to  prove  that  the  exiled  poet  remained  always  true  to  the 
Fatherland,  but  the  reader  feels  that  Heine,  under  French 
influence  if  you  will,  would  rather  be  witty  than  genuine, 
would  rather  satisfy  a  private  grudge  than  castigate  a 
public  wrong. 

I  fear  we  must  take  the  following  for  a  belated  bit  of 
Byronesque  not  borne  out  by  his  actual  conduct,  but  the 
passage  deserves  quotation  not  only  as  a  record  of  his 
better  nature  but  also  for  itself  as  prose : 

"Ich  weiss  wirklich  nicht,  ob  ich  es  verdiene,  dass  man 
mir  einst  mit  einem  Lorbeerkranz  den  Sarg  verziere.  Die 
Poesie  wie  sehr  ich  sie  auch  liebte,  war  mir  immer  nur 
heiliges  Spielzeug,  oder  geweihtes  Mittel  fiir  himmlische 
Zwecke.  Ich  habe  nie  grossen  Wert  gelegt  auf  Dichter- 
ruhm,  und  ob  man  meine  Liede  preiset  oder  tadelt,  es 
kiimmert  mich  wenig.  Aber  ein  Schwert  sollt  ihr  mir 
auf  den  Sarg  legen;  denn  ich  war  ein  braver  Soldat  im 
Befreiungskriege  der  Menschheit."  ^ 

Such  flashes,  often  a  trifle  lurid,  appearing  from  time 
to  time  in  Heine's  poetic  satires  and  prose  reflections,  stand 
out  only  too  strongly  against  the  shabby  background  of 
the  context.  More  characteristic  of  Heine's  general  tone 
is  the  assertion  that  if  he  had  to  shake  hands  with  the 
people,  he  would  be  careful  to  wash  his  hand  afterwards. 

Again,    Heine    could    never    be    called    a    philosophic 
poet,    although    in    Atta     Troll     and    Deutschland,   his 
•Reise  von  Miinclien  nach  Genua.    Cap.  XXX. 


HEINE    AND    TENNYSON.  165 

satires,  are  brilliant  passages  of  truth  and  blasphemy 
inseparably  interfused.  We  admire  the  astounding 
imagination,  but  we  cannot  regard  Heine's  faith  very 
seriously  when  he  expresses  it  in  such  figures  as  that 
when  we  accept  a  personal  god  we  receive  the  future  life 
gratis  like  a  piece  of  scrap-meat  at  the  butcher's.  Heine's 
genius  maintains  itself  only  for  short,  meteoric  flights ; 
he  never  could  have  held  himself  down  long  enough  to 
evolve  a  philosophic  creed,  nor,  supposing  he  had  done  so, 
was  he  earnest  enough  to  have  believed  in  it  the  next  day. 
On  the  other  hand,  Tennyson,  though  not  among  the 
greatest  English  philosophic  poets,  thought  earnestly  and 
to  a  purpose.  He  rose  from  "honest  doubt"  to  find  a 
deeper  meaning  in  nature  and  a  deeper  purpose  in  the 
seeming  contradiction  of  the  world  of  men.  Though  not 
equal  to  Browning,  he  has  the  advantage  of  thinking  more 
lucidly  and  thus  giving  the  results  of  his  meditations  to 
the  average  reader.  Kor,  despite  his  so-called  didacticism, 
is  Tennyson  ever  less  than  poetic.  The  "Flower  in  the 
crannied  wall"  is  a  fine  example  of  an  abstract  truth  made 
specific  and  comprehensible,  and  such  poems  as  Faith,  and 
God  and  the  Universe  bear  witness  to  a  well  balanced  and 
steadfast  form  of  belief.  Tennyson's  political  philosophy, 
most  clearly  portrayed  in  the  second  Locksley  Hall,  is 
the  deeply  reasoned  conservatism  of  Burke  which  states 
that  all  advance  must  be  based  on  the  assured  foundations 
of  the  past.  Like  Horace,  Tennyson  distrusts  the  "vulgus 
mobile,"  the  thousand-headed  monster,  and  exhorts  the 
statesman  to  legislate  with  his  eye  fixed  on  a  goal  beyond 
the  seething  present.^  Yet  Tennyson,  without  waiting  for 
the  help  of  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw,  perceived  many  of  the 
evils  lurking  in  modern  society,  as  we  see  in  an  outspoken 
'  Cf.  his  poem,  To  the  Duke  of  Argyll. 


ICG  CIIAELES  WHARTON  STOEK. 

passage  of  Aylmer's  Field.  In  his  patriotic  and  philo- 
sophical poetry  Tennyson  is  again  typically  English,  for 
unswerving  love  of  country  and  a  firm  belief  in  the  God 
above  and  the  God  within  are  an  inalienable  inheritance 
of  the  Englishman,  no  less  of  the  American,  as  opposed 
to  the  spasmodic  excitement  and  general  indifference  of 
the  continent.  Supposing,  what  we  should  hardly  admit, 
that  Tennyson  were  narrow  in  his  creed,  we  must  at 
least  admire  his  sincere  and  resolute  expression  of  it. 

One  important  observation  must  be  made  in  Heine's 
favor,  namely,  that  the  most  important  of  his  later  writings 
are  in  prose  which  is  beyond  the  province  of  this  essay 
as  are  the  plays  of  Tennyson,  since  neither  represents  the 
v/riter  at  his  best  and  neither  gained  a  universal  popu- 
larity. Heine's  prose,  however,  is  notable  in  many 
ways,  especially  for  its  technical  and  artistic  beauty. 
Irresistibly  fresh  and  charming  is  the  style  of  the 
Harzreise,  while  in  such  later  works  as  the  Florentinische 
Nachte  are  imaginative  passages  not  short  of  marvelous. 
Still  the  writer  shows  himself  to  us  here  as  in  his  poems ; 
in  youth,  enthusiastic  and  lovable ;  after  thirty,  world- 
weary  and  cynical.  The  random  raptures  and  daring  play 
of  humor  which  we  find  delightful  in  the  traveling  student, 
become  unspeakably  stale  and  mean,  often  mere  sacrilege 
and  vulgarity,  in  the  older  man  for  whom  no  deeper  mood 
succeeded.  The  brilliance  is  forced  and  only  the  bitter- 
ness is  from  the  heart.  The  beauty  of  the  Florentinische 
Nachte  is  morbidly  exotic,  and  in  the  criticisms  on  Shakes- 
peare's women  a  really  enlightening  passage  of  criticisms, 
like  that  on  Cleopatra,  may  be  followed  by  trivialities  or 
would-be  witticisms  on  Ophelia  and  Lady  Macbeth.  Per- 
haps the  finest  critique  is  that  on  Cordelia,  Avhom  he 
describes    as    the    modern    Antigone    who    surpasses    the 


HEINE    AND    TENNYSON. 


167 


ancient,  "a  pure  soul,  but  a  trifle  obstinate."  Heine's 
prose  style  is  discursive,  but  he  lacks  the  self-control  needed 
to  write  in  the  manner  of  Sterne  or  one  of  the  great 
French  masters,  the  unevenness  of  his  disposition  and  the 
obtrusion  of  personal  cavilling  or  rancor  spoiling  the  effect 
as  a  whole.  He  is  not  earnest  enough  for  a  satirist,  nor 
good-natured  enough  for  a  humorist. 

We  all  remember  Arnold's  lines: 

"The  Spirit  of  the  world, 
Beholding  the  absurdity  of  men — 
Their  vaunts,  their  feats — let  a  sardonic  smile. 
For  one  short  moment,  wander  o'er  his  lips. 
That  smile  was  Heine!" 

The  summary  is  just  if  we  consider  only  the  later  Heine. 

To  the  young  enthusiast  of  the  Harzreise,  Arnold  pays  a 

generous  tribute  in  an  earlier  passage  of  the  poem  just 

quoted,  viz.  Heine's  Grave. 

Turning  from  subject-matter  to  style  in  the  narrower 

sense,  we  shall  at  first  sight  incline  again  to  prefer  the 

German. 

"Heine  for  songs,  for  kisses  how?" 

writes  Browning,  who  felt,  as  we  all  do,  that  Heine  was 
the  nearest  approach  to  reality.  Heine  fuses  figures  with 
feeling,  and  runs  them  into  a  perfect  mould  of  form.  The 
imagery  is  not  external,  made  to  refer  to  the  subject,  but 
eves  and  stars  are  so  described  that  we  see  both  at  the 
same  instant.  Heine's  passion  pervades  all  he  sees.  The 
setting  sun  sinks  into  his  glowing  breast;  he  bends  over 
his  beloved  in  the  star-sown  sky,  her  voice  is  the  nightin- 
gale, "Die  Eose,  die  Lilie,  die  Taube,  die  Sonne"  unite 
in  her;  he  seizes  a  ISTorway  pine,  dips  it  into  the  crater 
of  Etna,  and  writes  on  the  black  tablet  of  the  night  in 
letters  of  fire,   "Agnes,    ich  liebe   dich!"     Even  to   the 


168  CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK. 

most  simple  and  conventional  emotions,  he  can  give  such 
unexpected  yet  profound  expression  as: 

"Wenn  ich  in  deine  Augen  sell ; 
So  schwinclet  all  mein  Leid  und  Weh; 
Doch   wenn   ich   kiisse   deinen   Mund 
So  werd'  ich  ganz  nnd  gar  gesund. 

Wenn  ich  mich  lehn'  an  deine  Brust, 
Koramt's  iiber  mich  wie  Himmelshist; 
Doch  wenn  du  sprichst:    'Ich  liebe  dich!' 
So  muss  ich  weinen  bitterlich." 

Heine  uses  contrast  and  irony  with  the  greatest  effect,  but 
the  style  is  never  decorative.  A  man  writing  at  white 
heat  has  no  time  to  pause  for  description  or  moral  reflec- 
tion. It  is  indeed  only  with  a  soaring  imagination  that 
irony  can  be  effective ;  if  the  poet  flies  too  low  his  attempt 
at  humor  may  be  taken  for  a  mere  accidental  slip  into  the 
ridiculous,  and  it  is  the  boldness  of  Heine's  contrasts  that 
makes  both  the  passion  and  the  anti-climax  more  effective. 
The  rapture  of  a  lover  and  the  agonies  of  the  Weltschmerz 
are  in  themselves  an  exaggeration  which  if  carried  too  far 
will  seem  strained  or  absurd.  The  artist,  seeing  this, 
avoids  the  catastrophe  by  anticipating  it,  drops  suddenly 
from  his  exalted  height,  and  thereby  not  only  attains  a 
striking  effect  of  irony,  but  also  shows  us  to  what  a  dizzy 
height  of  emotion  we  have  been  previously  carried.  For 
an  example  of  this  we  may  take  the  conclusion  of 
"Fragen,"  which  the  poet  asks  by  the  seashore: 

"O  lost  mir  das  Rtitsel  dcs  Lebens, 

Sagt   mir,    was   bedentet   der   Mensch? 
Woher  ist  er  komen?     Wo  geht  er  hin? 

Wer   wohnt   dort    oben    auf   goldenen    Sternen?" 

Es  murmeln  die  Wogen  ihr  ew'ges  Geniurmel, 
Es   wehet   der   Wind,   es   fliehen   die   Wolken, 

Es  blinken  die  Sterne  gleichgiiltig  und  kalt, 
Und   ein   Narr   wartet   auf   Antwort." 


HEINE    AND    TENNYSON.  169 

In  the  above  quotation  we  may  also  note  the  handling  of 
the  free  rhythm ;  first  the  nervous,  excited  movement  of 
the  questions,  then  the  monotonous  indifference  of  the 
elements  and  the  tremendous  accent  thrown  on  "I^^arr" 
in  the  final  line.  This  brings  us  to  Heine's  versification, 
where  he  is  once  more  a  past  master.  His  instinct,  his 
ear  is  unerring;  he  loses  no  opportunity,  and  he  makes 
no  mistake.  Considering  the  harshness  of  the  German 
language,  it  is  a  wonder  what  music  the  great  poets, 
especially  Heine,  can  draw^  from  it.  For  melodies  of 
breathing  tenderness  almost  any  of  the  poems  already 
quoted,  and  those  even  better  known,  wdiich  are  in  every 
memory,  will  suffice.  Again,  wdiat  unbridled  restlessness 
chafes  in  the  lines: 

"Mit   schwarzen    Segeln   segelt   mein   Schiff 
Wohl   Uber  das  wilde  Meer," 

and  what  pathos  echoes  in  the  refrain  where,  this  time  with 

the  deepest  sincerity,  he  speaks  of  his  country  "in  der 

Fremde." 

"Ic'h   hatte  einst  ciii  sclioncs  Vaterland. 
Der  Eiclienbaum 
Wiiclis  dort  so  hocli,  die  Veilclicn  iiicklcii  saiift. 
Es  war  ein  Trauni." 

Indeed,  Heine  at  his  best  seems  not  so  much  to  have  a 
beautiful  style  as  to  have  the  power  of  verbal  incarnation 
for  every  mood  and  change. 

We  have  seen  that  the  essence  of  Heine's  style  is  sub- 
jectivity and  directness ;  of  Tennyson  exactly  the  opposite 
is  true.  As  Mr.  Bagehot  has  noted,  the  style  of  Tenny- 
son is  always  objective,  descriptive,  decorative.  He 
wreathes  with  flowers  his  classic  goddesses,  his  medieval 
ladies  and  his  English  dairy-maids  till  we  can  hardly  tell 
them  apart.     He  is  never  too  intensely  centred  on  his 


170  CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK. 

subject  to  miss  a  chance  for  a  graceful  bit  of  detail,  and 
at  the  end  he  is  nearly  sure  to  drift  into  a  moral  parallel. 
In  "Break,  break,  break,"  for  instance,  he  takes  time  to 
turn  around  and  look  at  himself  before  going  on.  The 
interpolation  is  in  this  case  surely  a  fault.  Why  does  not 
the  poet  make  us  feel  what  he  cannot  utter,  instead  of 
saying  he  cannot  utter  it  ?  One  thinks  of  the  typical 
traveler's  letter  or  the  typical  popular  novelist:  "The 
scene  was  beyond  description,"  "Words  fail  to  express 
my  emotions."     Heine  would  simply  have  said 

"Mir   traumt   ich   weiss   nicht   was," 

and  we  should  have  understood.  Compare  also  the  speech 
of  Heine's  grenadier,  ready  to  spring  full-armed  from  the 
grave  at  the  sound  of  his  Emj)eror's  trumpet,  with  the 
more  artificial  figure  used  by  the  lover  in  Maud : 

"My   dust   would   hear   her   and   beat, 
Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet. 
And  blossom  in  purple  and  red." 

Tennyson  often  loses  himself  in  his  figure  and  prefers  the 
simile  to  the  metaphor.     Take  the  picture  of  Geraint: 

"Arms  on  which  the  standing  muscle  sloped 
As  slopes  a  wild  brook  o'er  a  little  stone, 
Running  too  vehemently  to  break  upon  it." 

Here  we  shift  our  attention  entirely  from  the  thing 
described  to  the  description.  But  no  better  illustration 
occurs  than  that  cited  by  Mr.  Bagehot,  i.  e.,  the  passage 
about  the  tropic  island  in  Enoch  Arden,  extremely  pic- 
turesque, but  quite  extraneous  to  the  action  of  the  story. 
We  need  not  treat  of  Tennyson  as  an  epic  poet,  because 
he  is  not  properly  an  epic  poet  at  all.  He  not  so  much 
tells  as  illustrates  a  story.     His  plots  are  either  flimsy  or 


HEINE    AND    TENNYSON.  171 

absurd,  such  as  one  would  expect  to  find  in  novels  written 
for  boarding-school  girls.  What  could  be  more  mawkish 
than  the  bare  narrative  of  Maud,  of  Locksley  Hall,  of 
Aylmer's  Field  ?  Of  the  flimsy  category  are  The  Lady  of 
Shalott,  Sea  Dreams,  The  Village  Wife,  etc.  As  to  the 
Idylls  of  the  King,  the  story  is  much  better  told  in  Malory. 
What  then  are  the  merits  of  this  description  which 
Tennyson  has  made  an  end  in  itself  ?  To  this  we  must 
answer  that  although  Tennyson  appeals  to  a  very  large 
audience  because  of  the  lucidity  with  which  he  portrays 
universal,  if  somewhat  generalized,  emotions,  yet  a  true 
appreciation  of  him  as  an  artist  does  not  come  at  once. 
Heine's  fiery  nature  burns  in  an  indelible  impression  at 
the  first  contact,  but  to  feel  the  charm  of  Tennyson  we 
must  allow  it  to  steal  over  us  gradually.  Heine  sweeps 
us  away  and  hurries  us  along  with  him ;  but  Tennyson 
is  less  a  passion  than  a  refuge  after  the  burden  and  heat 
of  the  day,  a  soft,  half-evasive  loveliness,  not  to  over- 
master, but  to  be  yielded  to.  He  gives  us  a  picture  of 
settled  English  landscape,  with  more  or  less  idyllic  figures 
moving  about  in  the  subdued  light  of  summer  afternoon, 
for  in  Tennyson's  land  it  is  "always  afternoon."  Here 
one  has  time  to  lean  back  and  enjoy  in  their  fulness  all 
the  lesser  beauties  of  nature: 

"A  league  of  grass,  wash'd  by  a  slow  broad  stream, 
That,  stirr'd  with  languid  pulses  of  the  oar, 

Waves    all    its    lazy    lilies,    and    creeps    on, 
Barge-laden,  to  three   arches   of  a  bridge 

Crown'd  with  the  minster  towers." 

But  every  line  of  The  Lady  of  Shalott,  The  Lotos- 
Eaters  and  twenty  others  is  precious  and  loses  half  its  value 
in  being  wrenched  from  the  context.  Be  it  confessed, 
however,   one  wearies   of   In  Memoriam,   some   hundred 


172  CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK. 

and  thirty  modulations  of  luke-warm  grief  slightly  sweet- 
ened by  a  modicum  of  philosophy.  Exquisite  lyrics  there 
are,  but  the  subject  offers  too  little  variety  for  such  inter- 
minable repetition.  Infinitely  greater  are  Lycidas  and 
Adonais. 

Let  us  observe,  next,  the  figures  in  this  Arcadian 
landscape.  Heine  displays  only  himself,  an  individual 
product  of  the  French  Revolution,  fervent  and  lovable, 
violent  and  selfish,  one  complete  but  isolated  personality; 
whereas  Tennyson  gives  us  in  general  two  types,  the  strong, 
pure-hearted  hero,  and  the  gentle,  somewhat  Griselda-like 
girl.  These  are,  to  be  sure,  the  idealizations  of  the 
English  university  man  and  the  quiet-eyed  English 
maiden.  The  villain  is  always  a  man  of  straw — did  any 
one  ever  quite  believe  in  Maud's  brother  or  young  Locks- 
ley's  uncle? — and  the  peasant  characters  afford  a  back- 
ground of  homely  humor  as  in  the  novels  of  George  Eliot. 
To  point  out  the  continental  and  English  qualities  in  the 
character-drawing  of  Heine  and  Tennyson  respectively 
would  be  superfluous.  To  be  sure,  we  are  all  interested 
in  Heine,  whereas  the  savant  of  the  continent  might  find 
the  English  hero  tiresome  and  the  heroine  insipid.  To 
appreciate  them  one  must  drift  into  the  poet's  atmosphere, 
as  one  might  stand  before  Turner's  "Crossing  the  Brook," 
until  the  day-dream  becomes  reality.  Then  we  shall  have 
time  to  examine  each  flower  and  shrub,  to  enjoy  the 
branching  elms,  the  oaks  and  smooth-boled  beeches,  and 
to  let  the  eye  follow  their  perspective  into  soft,  hazy  dis- 
tances of  hill  and  cloud.  And  if  the  sound  of  church 
bells  vibrates  solemnly  from  far  away,  we  do  not  feel 
it  as  an  intrusion,  but  as  an  audible  consecration  of  the 
scene.  So  are  we  affected  bv  Tennvson's  moralizings, 
which  are  so  sweet  and  unforced  that  we  not  only  accept 


HEINE    AND    TENNYSON.  173 

but  enjoy  them  in  the  context  despite  all  theories  of  art 
for  art's  sake. 

We  Anglo-Saxons  have  all  felt  the  charm  of  Tennyson's 
descriptions,  but  we  have  not  perhaps  stopped  to  think 
how  typically  English  this  passion  for  description  is.  No 
other  literature  contains  anything  like  the  same  amount; 
indeed  Lessing  maintains  that  poetry  should  never  describe, 
since  it  thus  encroaches  upon  the  province  of  painting 
and  sculpture.  The  answer  to  Lessing  is  that  given  by  a 
German  professor  of  English,  who  said  that  English 
poetry  was  in  itself  the  refutation  of  such  a  thesis.  English 
poetry  is  peculiarly  fond  of  picturesque  detail  for  its  own 
sake,  "loading  every  rift  with  ore,"  as  Keats  specifies  it. 
St.  Agnes'  Eve  is  perhaps  the  shining  example,  but  we  can 
go  back  to  Milton  and  Spenser  or  forward  to  Morris, 
Rossetti  and  Tennyson.  And  this  will  always  be  the 
justification  of  pictorial  poetrj^,  that  it  enables  the  writer 
to  evolve  from  such  airy  nothings  as  the  motive  of  The 
Lady  of  Shalott,  a  poem  which  wholly  delights  us.  The 
taste  may  be  an  acquired  one,  but  it  is  certainly  as  well 
worth  acquiring  as  a  fondness  for  the  strained  and  distorted 
emotions  of  the  present  continental  school. 

Tennyson  has  also  the  rare  gift  of  visualizing  religious 
and  political  abstractions.  He  retells  the  newspaper 
account  of  some  English  victory  so  that  it  stirs  our  blood 
with  the  thought  of  the  issues  at  stake,  he  states  some 
governmental  or  moral  axiom  in  so  novel  and  perspicuous 
a  way  that  he  lends  new  meaning  to  the  threadbare  truth. 
The  Ancient  Sage,  a  commentary  on  the  sceptic,  is  good 
reading  and  good  poetry,  the  argument  being  summed  up 
in  the  couplet  from  Locksley  Hall  Sixty  Years  After : 

"Truth   for   truth,    and   good   for   good!     The    Good,    the   True,   the 
Pure,  the  Just — 
Take  the   charm   'for  ever'    from   them,   and  they   crumble   into 
du't." 


174  CHARLES   WIIAETON   STORK. 

To  be  sure  we  must  give  Heine  credit  for  saying  that 
pantheism  is  merely  a  compromise  offered  by  the  atheist, 
but  we  have  seen  how  little  heart  this  maker  of  epigrams 
had  in  the  matter  of  religious  faith.  We  think  of  Tenny- 
son'8  poems  as  the  common-prayer-book  of  English  poetry, 
but  the  volume  contains  many  a  sharp  rebuke  of  narrow 
conventionality  and  intolerance.  Xote  his  fine  recognition 
of  the  English  spirit  which  made  the  American  revolu- 
tion.^ Inconsistent  as  the  traditional  Englishman  in  one 
point,  he  combines  a  love  for  the  human  race  in  general 
with  a  holy  hatred  of  the  French.  But  his  personal 
philosophy  has  a  high  mobility.  Akbar's  Dream  is  in 
truth  a  dream  of  something  loftier  than  the  world  has  yet 
attained,  a  cosmopolitan  religion,  and  nothing  is  farther 
from  Tennyson's  mind  than  the  fanaticism  which  consigns 
its  antagonists  to  fire  and  brimstone.  His  optimism, 
though  not  so  virile  as  Browning's,  carries  conviction  as 
to  the  progress  and  destiny  of  humanity,  and  his  con- 
servatism is  well  reasoned  and  well  stated.  His  attack  on 
modern  realism  is  especially  telling, 

"Rip  your  brothers'  vices  open,  strip  your  own  foul  passions  bare; 
Down  with  Reticence,  down  with   Reverence, — forward, — naked, — 
let  them  stare." 

Heine  might  indeed  have  replied  with  his  sardonic: 
"Der  lieben  Mittelmassigkeit  droht  hier,  wie  iiberall,  keine  Gefahr." 

Tennyson  is,  as  all  critics  have  noticed,  a  remarkably 
eclectic  poet,  and  in  this  quality  pre-eminently  English, 
which  being  interpreted  means  "retentive  of  tradition." 
Glancing  at  the  gi-eat  poets  preceding  him,  we  find  Burns 

*Cf.  England  and  America  in  1782. 


HEINE  AND  TENNYSON.  175 

more  universal  and  so  les8  insular.  Byron  and  Shelley, 
children  of  the  Revolution,  might  have  been  born  any- 
where in  Europe,  Wordsworth  is  too  metaphysical  and 
Coleridge  too  far  aloof  from  the  visible  world.  Keats, 
of  the  early  romanticists,  is  the  most  English,  and  forms 
the  link  in  the  line  of  royal  succession  from  the  Eliza- 
bethans to  Tennyson,  but  Keats  was  born  into  a  realm  of 
fancy  and  died  too  young  to  acquire  his  full  birthright  in 
the  outward  world.  In  the  contemporary  period  we  have 
Browning  rising  to  greater  intellectual  heights  and  Swin- 
burne attaining  more  elaborate  complexities  of  form,  but 
Tennyson  is  triumphantly  English  in  that  he  keeps  the 
balance  of  excellence  between  matter  and  manner.  He 
originates  comparatively  little,  adapting  his  true  poetic 
gift  to  the  models  of  the  past,  whether  of  English  litera- 
ture or  of  what  lies  at  the  foundation  of  English  literary 
tradition,  the  classics.  He  is  never  a  mere  imitator,  but 
has  the  faculty  of  assimilating  and  re-employing  the  con- 
tributions of  his  predecessors.  An  ex-Haverford  pro- 
fessor, Dr.  Mustard,  has  given  us  an  excellent  book  on 
classic  echoes  in  Tennyson,  showing  that  he  not  so  much 
wrote  as  felt  in  the  spirit  of  the  originals.  In  the  same 
way  he  used  Wordsworth's  philosophy  of  nature,  the  subtle 
music  of  Coleridge,  the  tenderness  of  Shelley,  the  lighter 
satiric  touch  of  Byron.  Above  all,  he  assumes  with  dignity 
the  gorgeous  mantle  of  Keats'  imagery.  "Keats  begat 
Tennyson,  and  Tennyson  begat  all  the  rest,"  says  a  critic. 
Yet,  although  Tennyson  is  inferior  to  each  of  the  poets  just 
mentioned  in  some  one  respect,  he  has  given  to  literature 
a  much  greater  body  of  good  poetry  than  any  one  of  them. 
He  directs  all  the  new-found  beauties  of  the  romanticists 
into  the  well-marked  path  of  English  literary  tradition. 
Later   he   brings   the   dramatic   monologue   of  Browning 


17G  CHARLES  WHARTON  STORK. 

within  the  apprehension  of  the  masses  in  such  splendid 
poems  as  Rizpah,  The  Wreck,  etc.  A  more  independent 
trait  is  Tennyson's  ability  to  write  noble  occasional  poems 
such  as  that  to  Virgil,  the  Ode  on  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
and  the  Inscription  on  the  Monument  to  Sir  John 
Franklin : 

"Not  here!   the  White  North  lias  thy  bones;   and  thou, 

Heroic  sailor-soul, 
Art  passing  on  thine  happier  voyage  now 
Toward   no   earthly   pole." 

Literary  coteries  discussing  their  favorites  among  the  poets 
of  the  last  century  will  never  agree  upon  one  name,  but 
the  great  bulk  of  readers  will  recrown  with  grateful  love 
the  late  laureate. 

Although  Tennyson  is  the  poet  of  the  average  man,  he 
is  never  an  average  poet.  This  is  due,  probably,  not  so 
much  to  his  command  of  imagery  as  to  the  sustained  flow 
and  melody  of  his  verse.  His  rhythm  not  ony  fascinates 
us  at  the  time,  but  lingers  in  our  memory  afterward,  so 
that  Tennyson  is  the  most  quotable  of  our  modern  poets. 
Lines  seldom  stand  out  like  the  mightiest  utterances  of 
Wordsworth  and  Browning,  but  on  every  page  will  be 
found  some  perfect  fitting  phrase,  while  the  even  balance 
of  the  context  never  jars  us  with  commonplaceness  or 
harshness.  Tennyson's  range  of  style,  like  the  range  of 
his  emotions,  is  not  great,  but  within  his  province  he 
rivals  the  best.  He  has  the  faculty  of  the  composer  who 
develops  a  simple  theme  with  perfect  art  in  a  hundred 
pleasing  modulations.  Mendelssohn  is  the  best  parallel — 
a  musician  never  of  striking  originality,  somewhat  senti- 
mental, whom  the  savants  are  compelled  to  admire  for  the 
mastery  of  his  art,  and  the  world  at  large  for  his  graceful 
blending  of  feeling  and  form.     So  the  unsophisticated,  the 


HEINE  AND  TENNYSON.  177 

simple  hearted,  love  Tennysou,  and  the  finest  and  most 
discerning  critics  love  him.  Tliose  who  dissent,  compose 
that  too  large  middle  class  of  culture  who  have  read  or 
understood  just  enough  to  mislead  themselves  and  others. 
If  Tennyson  originated  little  in  subject  matter,  he  at 
least  enlarged  the  technical  resources  of  the  literature  by 
the  introduction  of  a  lyrical  blank  verse.  His  blank  verse 
has  a  flexibility  and  melody  exactly  suited  to  the  idealized 
tone  of  the  substance. 

"Elaine    the    fair,    Elaine    the    lovable, 
Elaine  the  lily  maid  of  Astolat" 

and 

"0    mother    Ida,    many-fountain'd    Ida," 

have  a  beauty  of  sound  which,  like  the  mist  in  our  English 
afternoon  landscape,  lends  softness  and  remoteness  to 
the  scene.  A  nobler  note,  typifying  the  sunset  splendor 
which  succeeds  the  milder  light,  sounds  in  the  heroic 
cadences  of  Ulysses  and  the  harmonies  beginning  with 

"So  all  day  long  the  noise  of  battle  roll'd." 

The  former  rhythm  reminds  us  of  Turner's  Crossing  the 
Brook  as  contrasted  with  the  larger  effect  of  Ulysses  derid- 
ing Polyphemus.  The  imitations  of  Tennyson  are  weak 
because  they  lack  the  stability  and  repose  of  classic  inspira- 
tion, for  only  inherent  strength  and  symmetry  can  sustain  a 
wealth  of  ornament.  But  Tennyson's  blank  verse  is  so 
exquisite  that  he  can  use  it  for  purely  lyric  purposes,  to 
give  atmosphere  and  touch  the  most  delicate  chords  of 
emotion.  ISTo  night-pieces  of  Heine  breathes  more  rap- 
turously than 

"Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me." 

12 


178  CHAELES  WHARTON  STORK. 

Again,  "Tears,  Idle  Tears"  and  "Come  Down,  O  Maid" 
are  so  overflooded  with  music  that  we  do  not  even  notice 
the  absence  of  rhyme.  Doubtless  a  reason  why  Tenny- 
son has  been  undervalued  by  foreign  critics  is  that  one 
must  have  not  only  a  perfect  ear  but  also  a  subtle  appre- 
ciation of  the  values  of  sound  in  English  in  order  to  fully 
enjoy  such  an  artist. 

Yet  admirable  as  Tennyson  shows  himself  in  the  control 
of  blank  verse,  he  is  more  beloved  for  the  simpler  music 
of  his  songs  and  rhymed  lyrics,  the  mere  mention  of 
which  is  enough  to  set  one  quoting  or  improving  one's 
memory  in  any  of  the  anthologies.  There  is  a  mystical 
use  of  sounds  as  symbols  that  gives  these  lyrics  a  deeper 
magic,  even  for  the  casual  reader,  than  any  other  English 
songs  possess.  This  melody  was  Tennyson's  birthright, 
tinkling  at  once  in  Claribel,  and  persisting  through  his 
entire  works,  to  chime  its  last  tones  in  Crossing  the  Bar. 
How  often  do  the  elfin  echoes  of  the  Bugle  Song, 

"thin  and  clear 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going," 

enchant  us !  We  are  never  deaf  to  the  monotone  of 
Mariana's  lament,  nor  can  we  hear  unmoved  the  crash  of 
"Break,  Break,  Break,"  for  these  rhythmic  sounds  vibrate 
to  the  inmost  depths  of  us.  Tennyson's  art  was  not 
at  first  unstudied — he  speaks  of  the  difficulties  in  handling 
esses  in  English — but  soon  he  progi-essed  far  enough  to 
trust  his  instinct.  Swinburne's  alliterative  dithyrambs 
have  always  a  certain  trickiness,  but  Tennyson's  felicities 
are  as  unsought  as  they  are  satisfying.  Take,  for  example, 
A  Farewell,  which  is  more  personal  and  delicate  than  the 
better  known  Brook. 


HEINE  AND  TENNYSON.  l79 


A  FAREWELL. 

Flow   down,   cold   rivulet,   to   the  sea, 

Thy  tribute   wave   deliver; 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be. 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river; 
No  where  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 
And  here  thine  aspen  shiver; 

And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A  thousand  suns  will   stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver; 

But  not  by  thee  my   steps  shall  be. 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 


The  beauties  of  such  a  poem  are  not  obvious,  indeed  they 
conform  to  Swinburne's  definition  of  poetry  in  that  they 
are  indefinable. 

In  his  technique  Tennyson  is  not  less  English  than  in 
his  subjects.  He  follows  the  traditions  of  elegant  sim- 
plicity as  we  find  it  illustrated  in  the  reposeful  painting 
of  Reynolds,  Romney  and  Morland.  With  the  poet, 
as  with  the  painters,  inspiration  is  inherent,  but  the  form 
it  assumes  is  redolent  of  the  artist's  environment.  Tenny- 
son's poetry  belongs  to  England,  but  must  we  therefore 
conclude  that  it  has  no  appeal  for  the  connoisseur  of  the 
continent?  At  the  recent  exhibition  of  classic  British 
paintings  in  Berlin,  general  surprise  was  evoked  and 
unqualified  praise  was  bestowed  by  sincere  German  critics, 
who  recognized  that  a  new  and  important  field  of  beauty 
was   here  opened   to   them.     Might  not  foreign  literary 


180  CHARLES  WHAETON  STOEK. 

critics  have  the  same  sensation  by  allowing  themselves  to 
fall  under  the  similar  charm  of  Tennyson? 

Surveying  the  field  of  our  subject  from  the  vantage 
point  of  the  conclusion,  we  see  that  Heine  developed  almost 
immediately  under  the  forced  growth  of  the  continent  an 
intense  but  narrow  personality  which  confined  itself  to 
one  phase  of  life,  manifested  itself  in  a  remarkably  bril- 
liant subjective  style,  and  exhausted  itself  in  a  few  years. 
In  Tennyson  we  observe  a  slow  but  steady  development, 
a  much  broader  field  of  interests,  and  a  subdued,  imper- 
sonal style.  Both  are  admirable  artists ;  the  one  as  an 
individual  romanticist,  the  other  conforming  the  romantic 
spirit  to  the  bounds  of  classic  convention.  This  is  a 
natural  result  of  their  development,  for  Heine  was  greatest 
in  youth,  Tennyson  in  maturity;  and  youth  is  usually 
romantic  and  passionate,  whereas  manhood  is  stylistic  and 
restrained.  Heine  was  essentially  a  Bohemian,  one  whose 
emotions  were  uncontrolled,  whose  opinions  were  antago- 
nistic to  a  settled  mode  of  life,  whereas  Tennyson  was 
composed,  temperate,  with  that  generous  English  tender- 
ness which  never  gives  way  to  the  egoism  or  the  irony 
of  the  Parisian  point  of  view.  Not  many  great  English 
artists  have  been  Bohemian  in  the  modern  sense  of  the 
word;  that  is,  self-centred,  discarding  all  of  life  that  did 
not  minister  to  their  passions.  They  have  felt  themselves 
a  part  of  society  rather  than  a  sect  at  war  with  it,  and 
have  consequently  tried  to  reform  it  from  within  instead 
of  hurling  promiscuous  abuse  at  it  from  without.  Some- 
one may  be  tempted  here  to  enlarge  upon  Heine's  misfor- 
tune, the  ingratitude  of  his  country,  etc.,  but  a  clear  view 
of  the  case  will  show  that  Heine  was  well  placed  by  for- 
tune and  that  his  destiny  was  in  fact  his  character.  Never- 
theless a  ray  of  light  is  shed  over  his  last  hours.     In  the 


HEINE  AND  TENNYSON.  181 

moonlight  of  liis  last  dream  the  Passionsblume  opens  to 
him  mysteriously.     After  the  agony  of 

Gut  ist  tier  Schlaf,  der  Tod  ist  besser — freilich 
Das  beste  ware,  nie  geboren  sein," 

comes   a   fine  resignation,   recalling   Stevenson's   "Under 
a  wide  and  starry  sky"  in 

wo? 

Wo  wird  einst  des  Wandermiiden 

Letzte   Ruhestiitte   sein? 
Unter   Palmen   in   dem   Siiden? 

Unter  Linden  an  dem  Rhein? 

i 
Werd'  icli,  wo  in  einer  Wiiste 

Eingescharrt  von  fi'emder  Hand? 

Oder  ruh'  ich  an  der  Kiiste 

Eines   Meeres   in   dem   Sand? 

Immerhin!     Mich  wird  iimgeben 

Gotteshimmel,  dort  wie  hier, 
Und  als  Totenlampen  schweben 

Nachts   die   Sterne  liber  mir. 

At  first  thought  it  would  seem  that  a  marked  personality 
was  the  highest  form  of  poetic  genius,  since  in  such  a 
case  we  learn  to  know  and  love  the  poet,  but  after  a 
little  consideration  of  the  subject  we  must  admit  that  the 
greatest  writers  have  often  concealed  themselves  in  their 
art.  Tennyson's  weakness  is  that  his  impersonality  sel- 
dom goes  beyond  the  English  pale,  so  that  to  know  him  we 
must  first  know  his  country.  But  English  virtues  should 
interest  even  when  they  do  not  coincide  with  the  taste 
of  the  cosmopolitan,  and  Tennyson  has  an  undoubted  claim 
upon  universality.  The  man  of  the  world  may  assert  that 
such  poetry  is  fit  only  for  women  and  school  children,  but 


182  CHARLES   WHARTON   STORK. 

even  so  a  large  audience  remains,  and  have  we  not  all 
our  womanlike  and  childlike  moods,  which  deserve  to  be 
encouraged  rather  than  suppressed  ?  Ideal  poetry  must 
preserve  a  balance  between  power  and  restraint,  both  of 
which  are  essential.  Of  these  qualities  Heine  excels  in 
the  former,  Tennyson  in  the  latter,  and  a  fair  critic  will 
agree  that  the  difference  between  them  is  not  nearly  so 
much  in  degree  as  in  kind.  Each  developed  as  impulse 
drove,  and  if  anyone  goes  further  and  insists  that  one 
kind  must  be  higher  than  the  other,  we  must  answer  that 
the  greatest  and  most  enduring  poets  have  written  imper- 
sonally, rising  from  themselves  to  a  purer  and  more  ideal 
form  of  expression.  But  this  is  going  too  far  afield  into 
mere  theory.  In  practice  let  us  be  broad  minded,  never 
dictatorial  in  questions  of  taste.  Here  are  two  great  poets, 
both  of  whom  we  must  admire,  and  each  of  whom  we  may 
enjoy.  Shall  we  destroy  our  pleasure  by  comparison 
because  their  beauties  are  so  different  ?  Behold !  one  star 
differeth  from  another  in  glory. 


THE  FRANKLIA^'S  TALE. 


By  Walter  Morris  Hart,  Ph.D. 


I 


THE  FKAMi:LIN'S  TALE. 

Considered  as  a  Masterpiece  of  the  Narrative  Art,  in  Its 

Relation  to  the  Breton  Lay  and  to  the  General 

Frameworl^^  of  the  Canterbury  Tales. 

I.     The  Franklin's  Tale. 

The  FrankVms  Tale  was  manifestly  written  for  the 
place  which  it  now  occupies.  Not  only  did  Chaucer  con- 
nect it,  by  means  of  its  prologue,  with  the  preceding 
Squire's  Tale;  he  gave  also  ample  evidence  that  he  was 
conscious  of  the  dramatic  situation;  throughout  the  story 
he  never  forgot  that  the  Eranklin  was  talking,  and  talking 
to  the  Canterbury  Pilgrims.^'  The  tale  has  thus  compara- 
tively little  of  that  impersonal  quality  which  we  think  of 
as  characteristic  of  medieval  literature.  In  his  choice 
of  story,  and  in  his  way  of  telling  it,  the  Franklin  revealed 
certain  phases  of  his  own  charming  and  relatively  complex 
personality.  It  was  not,  indeed,  so  much  the  own  son  to 
Epicurus,  the  St.  Julian  for  hospitality,^   who  was  now 

*  See  the  passages  (like  "For  o  thing,  sires,  saully  dar  I  seye") 
where  the  Franklin,  in  the  first  person,  addresses  his  audience, 
vv.  761,  829,  927,  1113,  1466,  1493ff.,  1593f.,  1621f.  The  Franklin's  use 
of  the  word  wryte  is  clearly  a  slip.  See,  however,  Henry  Barrett 
Hinckley,  Notes  on  Chaucer,  pp.  238f.  Mr.  Hinckley  argues  for  an 
early  date  (1380)  for  the  Franklin's  Tale,  on  the  basis  of  evidences 
of  immaturity.  But  Professor  Tatlock  is  clearly  right  in  saying 
that  "Chaucer's  literary  manner  depended  far  less  on  the  time  of 
life  when  he  was  writing  than  on  the  character  of  his  subject." 
Development  and  Chronology  of  Chaucer's  Woi'lcs,  p.  18.  This 
is  a  peculiarly  valuable  comment  on  the  Franklin's  Tale. 

'  Except  in  the  description  of  December,  vv.  1252ff. 

(185) 


186  WALTER  MOEKIS  HART. 

speaking,  as  the  vavasour,  conscious  of  his  ''almost-baronial 
dignity,"^  yet  retaining  his  sturdy  middle-class  morality, 
condemning  his  son  for  wasting  his  substance  at  dice  and 
for  associating  with  low  company.     This  rare  combina- 
tion of  delight  in  high  living  and  high  thinking  must  have 
carried   with   it  unusual   sanity,   maturity   of  judgment, 
knowledge  of  the  world,   and   a  perhaps   not  unlearned 
interest  in  the  problems  of  life.     Thus,  although  he  may, 
as  Professor  Schofield  maintains,'  have  intended  his  story 
as  a  compliment  to  the  Squire,  yet  he  could  not  refrain 
from  siding  against  Aui'elius,  his  attitude  varying  from 
the  amusement  excited  in  sober  maturity  by  calf-love,*  to 
a  sterner  condemnation  of  magic  or  black  arts.^     Middle- 
class  morality  drew  the  picture  of  conjugal  equality,  in 
conscious  contrast,    apparently,   to   the   ideals   of  courtly 
love  and  to  the  notions  of  Aurelius.     Upon  this  idealism, 
however,  the  man  of  the  world  made  ambiguous  comment 
concerning  the  ways  of  women.*     In  much  the  same  mood 
he  declared  his  inability  to  use  figures  of  speech,  and  gave 
an  example  of  their  absurdity.'^     Such  interest  in  ques- 
tions   of    style    implies    some    reading;    the    Franklin's 
familiarity  with  Hieronymiis  contra  lovinianum,  revealed 
in  Dorigen's  exempla,  should  not  surprise  us,  nor  should 
his  knowledge  of  astrology.     His  whole  character  prepares 
us  for  his  interest  in  the  problem  of  evil.     His  interest, — 
for  Chaucer  did  not  forget  that  the  Fraiiklin  was  speaking, 
and  though  their  views  and  interests  may  have  coincided, 

'  Cf.  Skeat's  note  on  v.  360  of  the  General  Prologue. 

*M.  L.  A.,  XVI.  405. 

*Vv.  1084,  1217f. 

»Vv.  1119f.,  1132f. 

•Vv.  743,  803ff.,  817f. 

'Vv.  726f.,  lOlCf.  .  .    ■ 


THE    FKANKLIn's   TALE.  187 

as  Shakespeare's  and  Hamlet's  did  sometimes,  the  "fallacy 
of  quotation"  is  almost  as  delusive  in  the  case  of  the  great 
narrative  poet  as  it  is  in  the  case  of  the  great  dramatic 
poet  himself.® 

It  was,  then,  the  Franklin,  and  not  Chaucer,  who  said 
that  he  would  relate  one  of  the  lays  rhymed  by  the  old 
gentle  Britons  in  their  first  Briton  tongue.  The  fact  that 
the  story  was  a  very  old  one,  that  the  events  which  it 
narrated  must  have  happened  long  ago,  may  have  invested 
it,  for  the  Pilgims,  with  a  peculiar  charm.  Yet  no  attempt 
was  made  to  emphasize  or  to  develop  this  glamor  of  the 
past,  though  the  Franklin  might  well  have  learned  from 
the  Wife  of  Bath  how  to  clothe  his  story  in  an  atmosphere 
of  beauty  and  mystery.     How  different  was  her  beginning ! 

In  tholde  dayes  of  the  king  Arthour, 

Of  which  that  Britons  speken  greet  honour, 

All  was  this  land  fulfild  of  fayerye. 

The  elf-queen,  wih  hir  loly  companye, 

Daunced    ful    ofte   in    many    a   grene    mede; 

This  was  the  olde  opinion,  as  I  rede. 

I  speke  of  manye  hundred  yeres  ago; 

But  now  can  no  man  see  none  elves  mo   (vv.  857ff.)- 

The  Franklin  made  no  such  distinction  between  past  and 
present ;  nor  did  he  emphasize  the  connotation  of  the  scene 
of  his  story,  of  "Armorik  that  called  is  Britayne."  Doubt- 
less his  hearers  were  more  or  less  familiar  with  Breton 
lays  and  knew  that  Brittany  was  the  home  of  mystery  and 
romance,  the  very  threshold  of  fairyland,  but  that  the 
Franklin  so  conceived  it  there  is  no  evidence  whatever. 
The  sea  and  the  dangerous  coast  with  its  hostile  black 
rocks  were  necessary  for  his  story,  and  to  these  the  "places 
delitables" — conventional       medieval       gardens — formed 

'  Cf.  Jloulton,  The  Moral  System  of  Shakespeare,  p.  1. 


188  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

effective  contrast,  and  wliatever  charm  of  unreality  may 
have  been  present  was  due  merely  to  vagueness  in  concep- 
tion, even  to  absence  of  clear  visualization.'  The  time 
and  the  land  seem  empty;  a  May  morning,  a  "Now"  in 
December,  a  flowery  garden,  a  bit  of  rocky  coast,  a  busy 
street,  stand  out  but  dimly  against  a  background  of 
shadows. 

This  background  is  vaguely  peopled — by  the  vanishing 
figures  in  the  busy  street,  or  those  friends  of  Dorigen  who 
walked  with  her  by  the  sea,  or  danced  in  the  gardens. 
Detached  but  slightly  from  these  are  individuals,  who 
appear  in  receding  perspective,  Aurelius  the  social 
favorite,  Arveragiis  the  flower  of  chivalry,  Dorigen  the 
high-born,  the  magician,  the  squire  and  maid  of  Arveragus, 
and  the  servant  of  the  magician. 

The  nearest  of  these  figures  are  but  dimly  seen.  Dorigen 
has  the  distinction  of  being  "oon  the  fairest  under  sonne." 
Aurelius  alone  is  honored  by  a  formal  description ;  he 

fressher  was  and  lolyer  of  array, 
As   to   my   doom,   than   is   the   monthe    of   IMay. 
He  singeth,  davmceth,  passinge  any  man 
That  is,  or  was,  sith  that  the  world  bigan. 
Ther-with  he  was,  if  men  sholde  him  discryve, 
Oon  of  the  beste  faringe  man  6n-lyve ; 
Yong,  strong,  right  vertuous,  and  riche  ond  wys, 
And  wel  biloved,  and  holden  in  gret  prys   (w.  927fl'.). 

This  conventional  panegyric,  absolutely  without  visualiza- 
tion, is  to  be  contrasted  with  vividly  descriptive  lines  from 
the  portrait  of  the  Squire  in  the  General  Prologue: 

*  It  is  noteworthy  that  the  journey  from  Penmark  to  Orleans  seems 
(w.  1239ff.)  to  require  but  a  single  day,  whereas  Orleans  lies  300 
miles  due  east  (not  south,  as  Professor  Schofield  insists).  Aurelius 
thus  seems  imconsciously  to  perform  a  task  like  that  of  Doon,  Avho 
rode  from  Southampton  to  Edinburgh   in   a   day  to  win  a  maiden. 


THE    franklin's   TALE.  189 

With  lokkes  crulle,  as  they  were  leyd  in  presse. 

Of  twenty  yeei*  of  age  he  was,  1  gesse. 

Of  his  stature  he  was   of  evene  lengthe, 

And  wonderly   deliver,   and   greet   of  strengthe. 

Enibrouded  was  he,  as   it  were  a  niede 
Al   ful   of  fresshe   floures,  whyte  and   rede. 
Singinge  he  was,   or  floytinge,   al  the  day ; 
He  was  as  fresh  as  is  the  month  of  May. 
Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  longe  and  wyde. 
Wei  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  faire  ryde  (vv.  81ff.). 

One  should  compare  particularly  "young"  with  "twenty 
years  of  age,"  "strong"  with  "wonderly  deliver  and  great 
of  strength,"  "one  of  the  best  faring  men  alive"  with 

Curteys  he  was,   lowly,  and  servisable, 

And  carf  biforn  has  fader  at  the  table    (vv.  98f. ). 

In  each  case  the  General  Prologue  is  the  more  precise, 

specific,  vivid.     It  is  the  same  convention,  but  here  far 

more  effectively  elaborated,  so  that  one  feels  that,  in  this 

respect  at  least,  the  Chaucer  of  the  Franhlin's  Tale  is  not 

quite   the   Chaucer  of  the   General  Prologue.     Yet  this 

is  his  nearest  approach  to  that  manner ;  except  Aurelius, 

not  one  person  in  the  Franklin's  Tale  is  seen  or  described 

at  all.     ]^ot  one,  in  fact,  is  an  individual ;  they  are  all 

idealized   types,    simply.     Dorigen   is    the    obedient    and 

constant  wife ;  Aurelius,  the  passionate  lover ;  Arveragus, 

the  worthy  man  of  arms,  flower  of  chivalry.     Comparison 

with  the  Knight  of  the  General  Prologue  is  suggestive. 

The  lines : 

He  loved  chivalrye, 
Trouthe   and  honour,   fredom   and   eourteisye. 
Ful  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre    (vv.  45ff. ), 

are  an  admirable  description  of  Arveragus.  But  what 
follows  reveals,  again,  the  typical  vividness  and  concrete- 
ness  of  the  General  Prologue. 


190  WALTER    ilOREIS   HAET. 

This  conventional  quality  of  the  persons,  however, 
should  not  blind  us  to  the  relatively  subtle  contrast  between 
Arveragus  and  Aurelius — knight  and  squire;  for  one  is 
the  typical  man  of  action,  wise,  sane,  mature;  the  other, 
the  typical  sentimentalist,  youthful,  inactive,  passionate. 
The  distinction  is  made  consistently  throughout  the  story ; 
the  method  is  thoroughly  characteristic.  ^°  Thus,  at  the  out- 
set, Arveragus,  to  make  himself  worthy  to  speak  to  Dorigen 
of  his  love,  undertakes  many  a  labor,  many  a  gi-eat  enter- 
prise. In  order  that  they  might  live  the  more  happily, 
he  was  ready  to  swear  never  to  take  upon  himself  the 
mastery.^ ^  The  Franklin  is  thinking  of  him  in  his  gen- 
eral praise  of  those  who  are  patient  in  love,  who  have 
learned  to  suffer  whatever  may  be  said  or  done  amiss  in 
wrath,  or  sickness,  or  sorrow,  or  because  the  stars  above 
us  govern  our  conditions,  and  who  do  not  expect  vengeance 
for  every  wrong.  Much  as  he  loved  Dorigen,  he  loved 
.  honor  more,  and  after  only  a  year  of  happiness  with  her, 
I  set  out  for  a  two  years'  sojourn  in  England,  there  to 
''seek  worship  in  arms.  On  his  return,  in  health  and  great 
honor,  he,  like  Aurelius,  danced,  but  he  jousted  also.  He 
had  neither  suspicion  nor  fear  that  anyone  had  spoken 
to  Dorigen  of  love.  And  when  he  had  heard  her  story  he 
did  not  accuse  or  reproach  her.  He  sought  rather  to 
comfort  her,  and  he  saw  at  once  a  possible  way,  for  one 
of  his  ideals  of  "trouthe,"  the  only  way,  out. 

'"It  may  be  Mel,  paraventure,  yet  to-day. 
Ye  shul  your  trouthe  holden,  by  my  fay!"   (w.  1473f.). 

'°  Cf.  the  contrast  of  the  more  highly  individualized  Nicholas  and 
Absolon  (in  the  Miller's  Tale),  Troilus  and  Pandarus,  even  the  more 
vaguely   conceived   Palamon  and  Arcite. 

"  His  retaining  the  name  of  sovereignty  for  the  sake  of  appear- 
ances does  not  seem  quite  in  character;  but  this  trait  is,  apparently, 
introduced  here  because  it  is  necessary  later. 


THE    franklin's  TALE.  191 

When,  with  tears,  he  bade  her  tell  no  one  "of  this  aven- 
ture,"  his  grief  was  unmistakably  caused,  not  by  any  fear 
for  the  future,  but  by  what  had  already  happened,  by  the 
same  thought  of  appearances  which  led  him  at  the  begin- 
ning to  reserve  the  name  of  sovereignty.  It  is  because  of 
just  this  foreknowledge  of  what  Aurelius  will  do  that 
Arveragus  is  not  to  be  regarded  as  a  ''lewed"^^  man. 
Dorigen,  the  Franklin  tells  his  hearers,  is  to  have  better 
fortune  than  they  imagine. 

Unlike  Arveragiis,  x\urelius,  the  sentimentalist,  does  not 
enter  the  story  performing  prodigies  of  valor,  but  dancing 
"passinge  any  man."  He  is  well-mannered,  amiable,  dis- 
creet, and  generally  liked.  Like  Arveragus,  he  stood  in 
EAve  of  Dorigen.  He  did  not,  however,  seek  to  make  him- 
self worthy  of  her  by  great  deeds,  but  luxuriated  in  passive 
despair,  expressing  his  grief,  so  far  as  he  dared,  in  general 
terms,  in  lays,  songs,  complaints,  roundels,  virelays.  When 
he  spoke  to  Dorigen  at  last  he  began  by  telling  her  of  his 
desire  to  die,  then  begged  for  mercy.  He  declared  at 
once  that  Dorigen's  condition  was  "an  inpossible,"  and 
desired  nothing  but  sudden  and  horrible  death.  With 
piteous  heart  he  made  his  comjDlaint  to  the  gods,  and  when 
they  were  deaf  to  his  bootless  cries,  fell  swooning  and  lay 
for  a  long  time  in  a  trance.  His  brother  carried  him  to 
his  bed,  where  he  lay  for  two  years  in  languor  and  furious 
torment.  Then  at  last  his  brother,  not,  as  in  Boccaccio's 
story,  the  lover  himself,  bethought  him  of  the  magician. 
When  the  rocks  had  been  removed  he  saluted  his  lady  with 
humble  countenance  and  heart  full  of  dread.  In  his 
forbearance  to  press  his  claim  as  a  right  which  he  had  now 
earned,  he  seemed  to  exhibit  but  another  phase  of  his 
sentimentalism,   four  parts   selfishness   and  cowardice  to 

"V.  1494;  "lewed"  clearly  means  here  ignorant,  unskilful,  bungling. 


192  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

one  of  delicacy  and  consideration.  And  it  was  this  same 
sentimentalism — lack  of  that  will-power  and  decision 
which  are  developed  by  action,  desire  to  stand  well  in  the 
opinion  of  others — that  led  him  to  follow  so  promptly 
where  another  had  shown  the  way,  to  vie  with  Arveragiis 
in  generosity,  as  Arveragus  expected  him  to  do,  even 
though,  clearly  enongh,  he  had  not  the  same  confidence 
in  the  outcome. 

For  Aurelius  was  quite  capable  of  a  noble  deed;  from 
the  beginning  there  is  no  doubt  of  that.  Viewed,  not 
from  the  modern,  but  from  the  medieval  point  of  view, 
there  was  nothing  unusual  in  his  falling  in  love  with 
Dorigen ;  even  Arveragus  did  not  condemn  him  for  that. 
What  was  unusual  was  the  relation  of  Arveragiis  and 
Dorigen.  He  was  her  lover  and  her  lord  also,  and  the 
|/  fidelity  which  she  would,  in  medieval  romance,  have  given 
her  lover,  she  gave  to  her  husband.  Her  scorn  of  Aurelius 
for  loving  another  man's  wife  must  have  sounded  strange 
in  his  ears.  Yet,  because  of  the  unusual  relation  of 
Arveragus  and  Dorigen,  the  disturber  of  their  happiness 
inevitably  incurs  the  dislike  and  condemnation  of  readers. 
But  this  must  not  go  too  far.  A  villain  ^vould  have 
destroyed  the  ideal  mood  of  the  story,  would  have  given 
it  a  different  ending.  Aurelius,  therefore,  is  made  as 
attractive  as  possible ;  and  even  a  sentimentalist  may  be — 
usually  is — attractive,  except  for  the  over-strenuous  man 
of  action.  If  he  loved  Dorigen  it  was  not  his  fault  but 
his  ''aventure,"  his  misfortune.  It  is  noteworthy  that 
he  and  Arveragus  never  came  togetlier.  Such  a  scene 
would  have  been  difiicult  to  handle,  and  Aurelius  would 
have  suffered  too  much  by  the  contrast.  He  has  the  quali- 
ties of  his  defects,  however ;  his  sentimentalism  saves  him. 
His  youth,  his  popularity,  his  amiability,  his  sufferings, 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  193 

the  very  strength  of  his  passion  (for  who  could  help  loving 
Dorigen'^),  are  all  in  his  favor.  It  is  his  brother,  not  he, 
who  thinks  of  the  magician.  And  Aurelius  makes  no 
claim  upon  Dorigen,  tells  her  simply  that  the  rocks  are 
removed,  and  leaves  her  without  pressing  his  suit.  That 
he  should  follow  the  noble  example  of  Arveragus  produces, 
then,  no  shock  of  unreality. 

The  impression  of  these  three  characters,  consistent 
types,  if  not  individuals,  is  conveyed  to  us  by  a  variety  of 
means,  mainly,  perhaps,  by  what  they  say  and  do  in  carry- 
ing forward  the  story;  for  of  dialogue  or  action  for  pur- 
poses of  characterization  there  is  very  little.  JSTor  do  their 
conventional  good  looks  give  us  any  clue.  More  significant 
are  the  effects  which  they  produce  upon  one  another  or 
upon  others ;  the  'Svorthinesse"  of  Arveragus  is  capable 
of  winning  Dorigen  to  a  very  unusual  fidelity ;  her  unde- 
fined charm  inspires  love  in  very  different  men ;  Aurelius 
is  'Svel  biloved  and  holden  in  gret  prys,"  and  subject 
to  the  good  influence  which  springs  from  the  powerful 
character  of  iirveragus.  Epithets,  giving  the  narrator's 
opinion  of  a  character  are,  when  used,  conventional,  like 
virtuous,  gentle,  worthy,  wise.  Beyond  the  contrast 
between  Arveragus  and  Aurelius,  and  the  necessary  effort 
to  make  Aurelius  attractive,  it  does  not  appear  that 
Chaucer  felt,  in  the  Franklin's  Tale,  his  usual  interest  in 
character. 

The  story  seems  to  have  been  interesting  to  him  mainly 
because  of  what  it  offered,  or  demanded,  in  the  way  of 
study  of  emotion.  ISTot  that  he  attempts  any  analysis  so 
subtle  as  that  in  Troilus  and  Criseyde;  not  that  there  is 
any  great  scope  or  variety  of  emotions,  for  they  are  limited 
to  joy  and  sorrow  in  their  various  degrees.  What  is 
striking  is  the  completeness  of  the  "lines  of  emotion ;" 

13 


194  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

from  beginning  to  end  of  the  story  we  can  trace  the  emo- 
tional rise  and  fall  of  Aurelius,  fall  and  rise  of  Dorigen.^^ 

"  Complete  illustration  would  require  the  quotation  of  a  large 
portion  of  the  tale.  Dorigen's  varying  moods  may  be  traced  in  out- 
line as  follows:  "A  yeer  and  more  lasted  this  blisful  lyf"  (v.  806)  ; 
in  Arveragus's  absence  "wepeth  she  and  syketh  *  *  *  moorneth, 
waketh,  wayleth,  fasteth,  pleyneth"  (vv.  817  and  819)  ;  her  friends 
comfort  her  '"til  she  Receyved  hath,  by  hope  and  by  resoun,  The 
emprenting  of  hir  consolacioun,  Thurgh  which  hir  grete  sorwe  gan 
aswage"  (vv.  832ff.)  ;  "Hir  freendes  sawe  hir  sorwe  gan  to  slake" 
(v.  841)  ;  she  walked  with  them  and  saw  the  ships,  "but  than  was 
that  a  parcel  of  hir  wo"  (v.  852)  ;  she  saw  the  rocks,  "For  verray 
fere  so  wolde  hir  herte  quake,  That  on  hir  feet  she  mighte  hir 
noght  sustene"  (w.  860ff. )  ;  her  lament  concerning  the  rocks  and 
the  problem  of  evil  follows.  Her  friends  try  other  places,  where, 
however,  she  "made  ahvey  hir  compleint  and  hir  mone"  (v.  920)  ; 
yet  at  last  she  must  "with  good  hope  lete  hir  sorwe  slyde"  (v.  924). 
When  Aurelius  declared  his  love,  "she  gan  to  loke"  (v.  979)  upon 
him, — evidently  in  surprise  and  scorn.  "What  deyntee  sholde  a 
man  ban  in  his  lyf  For  to  go  love  another  manues  wyf"  (w.  1003f. )  ; 
afterward,  "And  hoom  they  goon  in  loj'e  and  in  solas.  Save  only 
wrecche  Aurelius,  alias!"  (vv.  lOlOf.)  (Has  Chaucer  forgotten 
Dorigen,  or  did  he  intend  to  include  her  in  those  who  went  home 
joyfully?)  When  Arveragus  returns,  "0  blisful  artow  now,  thou 
Dorigen!"  (v.  1090).  We  hear  no  more  of  Dorigen  until  Aurelius 
tells  her  of  the  removal  of  the  rocks;  then  "she  astonied  stood,  In 
al  hir  face  nas  a  drope  of  blood  *  *  *  ^^(j  hoom  she  gooth  a 
sorweful  creature.  For  verray  fere  unnethe  may  she  go.  She 
wepeth,  wailleth,  *  *  *  swowneth  »  *  *  With  face  pale  and 
with  ful  sorweful  chere."  (vv.  1339ir.).  Her  Complaint  follows. 
"Thus  pleyned  Dorigene  a  day  or  tweye"  (v.  1547).  "She  gan  wepen 
ever  lenger  the  more"  (v.  14G2).  She  expresses  no  emotion  when 
she  hears  Arveragus's  command,  but  when  she  meets  Aurelius  and 
he  asks  where  she  is  going, 

She  answerde,   half  as   she  were  mad, 

'Un-to  the  gardin,  as  myn  housbond  bad. 

My   trouthe   for  to  holde,   alias!    alias!'    (w.    ISllff.). 

Her  relief  is  not  described,  except  by  "She  thonketh  him  up-on  hir 
knees  al   bare"    (v.    1545).     Finally, 

Arveragus   and  Dorigene   his   \yj{ 

In   sovereyn   blisse   leden   forth  hir  lyf    (vv.    1551f.). 


THE   franklin's  TALE.  195 

Equally  striking  is  the  contrast  between  rise  and  fall, 
joy  and  sorrow.  Dramatic  contrast  heightens  the  effect 
of  the  despair  of  Aiirelius  after  his  rejection: 

And  hoom  they  goon  in  loye  and  in  solas, 
Save  only  wrecche   Avirelius,  alias!    (w.    1019f.). 

There  is  the  same  sharj)  contrast  between  Aurelius's  "Fy 
on  a  thousand  pound"  and  his  emotions  when  he  finds 
himself  beggared  for  nothing. 

As  in  dealing  ^vith  character,  so  also  in  dealing  with 
mental  states,  Chaucer  does  not  hesitate  to  use  a  direct 
or  analytical  method,  to  name  emotions.  Numerous 
epithets  occur  in  the  assignment  of  the  speeches, — as  when 
Aurelius  is  said  to  have  begun  his  "pleynt"  with  "pitous 
herte," — including  almost  every  conceivable  word  for  joy 
and  sorrow.^'*  At  supreme  moments,  however,  Chaucer 
is  likely  to  let  a  "known  cause"  suggest  the  emotion. 
Thus  little  is  said  of  Dorigen's  relief  when  she  is  released 
from  her  promise,  or  of  Aurelius's  when  he  is  released 
from  his,  and  nothing  whatever  of  the  joy  of  Arveragus 
when  Doiigen  returns  to  him.  Doubtless  his  feelings 
"can  be  better  imagined  than  described."  Rather  curi- 
ously, as  it  seems  to  us,^^  Dorigen  expresses  no  emotion 
when  Arveragus  commands  her  to  keep  her  word.  The 
rocks  and  ships,  a  notable  instance  of  "known  cause,"  are 
not  allowed  to  stand  alone  and  suggest ;  for  purposes  of 

"Astonied,  blisse,  blisful,  cares  colde,  comfort,  compassioun,  con- 
solation, despeyred,  dredful,  fere,  glad,  herte  soor,  hope,  good  hope, 
humble,  humblesse,  loy,  lisse,  mad,  penaunce,  peynes  smerte, 
pitous,  pitously,  routhe,  solas,  sorwe,  sorweful,  sorwefully,  wo,  woful. 

"  It  is  perhaps  modern  feeling  about  the  matter  which  dictates  the 
passionate  outburst  of  Dorigen  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Triumph 
of  Honor.  She  speaks  to  the  same  effect,  though  more  briefly,  in 
Boccaccio's  novella.  In  Chaucer's  conception,  perhaps,  her  vows 
demanded  a  silence  like  Griselda's. 


196  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

"preparation"^*^  their  effect  is  explained  and  carefully 
emphasized. 

Chaucer,  as  has  been  said,  does  not  visualize  the  back- 
ground or  the  persons  of  his  story ;  all  the  more  striking, 
therefore,  is  his  constant  conception  of  the  expression 
of  the  emotions  as  audible  and  visible.  Grief  finds  inar- 
ticulate expression, — sighs,  groans,  tears.  Aurelius  "knew 
not  what  he  spoke;"  Dorigen  answered  "half  as  she  were 
mad."  Contrasted  with  these  are  the  conventional 
prayers,  "complaints,"  exempla  proving  the  necessity  of 
death,  brooding  over  the  problem  of  evil.  Action,  "pan- 
tomime," accompanying  these  emotional  utterances,  serves 
to  heighten  their  effects,  as  when  Dorigen  sat  and  stared 
at  the  sea,  or  (in  surprise  and  scorn)  "gan  to  loke  upon 
Aurelius,"  or  thanked  him  for  releasing  her  "upon  her 
knees  al  bare,"  or  as  when  Aurelius  turned  away  (in 
despair)  with  a  single  word,  or,  kneeling  on  bare  knees, 
raised  his  hands  to  Heaven,  or  started  up  suddenly  when  his 
brother  suggested  to  him  a  way  of  fulfilling  Dorigen'a 
impossible  condition.  In  a  singularly  effective  couplet, 
which  almost  dignifies  Aurelius's  passion,  action  stands 
alone : 

It  may  wel  be  he  loked  on  hir  face 

In  swich  a  wyse,  as  man  that  asketh  grace   (v.  957f.). 

More  purely  automatic  reactions,  the  results,  or,  as  Pro- 
fessor James  would  say,  the  causes  of  emotion,  convey 
to  the  reader  a  sense  of  the  sufferings  or  the  joys  of 
Aurelius    and    Dorigen.^  ^     In    spite,    however,    of    this 

"  Cf.  pp.  204ff.,  below. 

"The  tale  abounds  in  such  studies  in  physiological  psj^chology  as 
"Anon  for  loye  his  heite  gan  to  daunce"  (v.  1136)  ;  "For  verray 
fere  so  wolde  hir  herte  quake,  That  on  hir  feet  she  mighte  hir 
noght  sustene"  (vv.  8G0f.)  ;  "In  al  hir  face  nas  a  drope  of  blood" 
(v.  1340)  ;  or  as  "in  swowne  he  111  adoun.  And  longe  tyme  he  lay 
forth  in  a  traunce"    (vv.   1080f.). 


THE    FRANKLIISf's   TALE.  197 

insistence  upon  emotion  and  the  more  violent  forms  of  its 
expression,  the  tale  is  not  witlioiit  a  certain  reticence,  as 
in  the  case  just  cited,  of  Aurelius  turning  away  in  despair 
with  a  single  word,  or,  still  more  noteworthy,  the  brief 
and  restrained  speech  of  Dorigcn  to  Aurelius,  when 
they  met  in  the  busy  street: 

"Un-to  the  gardiii,  as  myn  housbond  bad, 
My  trouthe   for  to  holde,   alias!    alias!"    (vv.    1512f.). 

Chaucer's  silence  at  supreme  moments  has  already  been 
noted.  ^^ 

In  keeping  with  this  relatively  elaborate  psychology  is 
the  relatively  elaborate  study  of  motives.  The  central 
motive,  however,  the  mainspring  of  the  action,  is  not  an 
emotion,  but  a  concept,  *'the  contagious  influence  of  good." 
In  this  case  the  particular  good  is  truth,  honor,  keeping 
one's  word,  remaining  true  to  one's  vows,  without  regard 
to  the  consequences  to  oneself  or  to  others.  "Trouthe  is 
the  hyeste  thing  that  man  may  kepe"  (v.  1479)  declares 
Arveragus.  It  was  a  common  medieval  ideal.  In  one 
or  another  form  it  inspired  most  of  the  tales  of  the  tenth 
book  of  the  Decameron;  it  inspired  romances  like  Amis 
and  Amile  or  Sir  Gaivayn  and  the  Grene  Knight.  It 
is  at  bottom  the  ideal  of  perfect  faith,  of  "Though  he  slay 
me,  yet  will  I  trust  in  him,"  or  of  "Whosoever  will  save 
his  life  shall  lose  it;  and  whosoever  will  lose  his  life  for 
my  sake  shall  find  it."  It  is  an  inspiriting  belief;  there 
is  an  encouraging  optimism  in  the  thought  that  virtue  and 
self-sacrifice  do  in  the  end  receive  their  reward.  Stories 
illustrating  it  have  a  peculiarly  stimulating  quality ;  they 
are,  too,  essentially  dramatic,  in  that  tragedy  seems 
inevitable,  and  the  hapjiy  ending  comes,  with  a  shock  of 

"P.  195,  above. 


/ 


198  WAIvTEB   MORRIS   HART. 

surprise,  as  an  unexpected  relief,  l^or  does  the  fact 
that  Arveragus  foresaw  the  generosity  of  Aurelius  destroy 
this  ideal  quality  in  the  Franklin  s  Tale.  We  delight  to 
find  that  his  confidence  was  not  misplaced,  and  our  faith 
in  the  essential  goodness  of  mankind  is  confirmed. 
Arveragus  himself  becomes,  by  virtue  of  his  foresight, 
less  the  fanatic,  more  the  sane  man  of  the  world,  who 
conceives  his  ideal  of  truth  in  practical  and  rational 
terms.  He  is  still  to  be  contrasted  with  Boccaccio's  Gil- 
bert©, who  acted  simply  through  fear  of  the  necromancer. 
Common  as  was,  in  the  Middle  Ages,  this  high  ideal 
of  honor,  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  it  was  realized  every 
day.  To  the  charm  of  the  idealism  of  the  story  must 
be  added  the  charm  of  its  strangeness,  not  only  in  the 
deed  of  Arveragus,  but  in  his  relations  with  Dorigen. 
Sense  of  honor  must  take  precedence  of  love;  the  greater 
the  love,  therefore,  the  greater  the  triumph  of  honor. 
The  Franklin  takes  care  to  emphasize,  to  expound  at 
length,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  tale,  the  perfect 
equality  and  harmony  of  Dorigen  and  Arveragus,  this 
paradox  of  married  lovers.  Only  such  an  unusual  wife 
as  Dorigen  would,  without  question,  obey  her  husband's 
command,  or  would  reject  such  a  lover  as  Aurelius.^' 
Aurelius  is  from  the  very  beginning  doomed  to  defeat,  a 
defeat  which  he  owes  not  only  to  the  perfect  union  of 
Dorigen  and  Arveragus,  proof  against  any  conceivable 
attack,  but  also  to  the  nature  of  his  own  passion,  which  can 
stoop  to  attain  its  end  by  "constraint."  The  trap  of  his 
making  in  which  Dorigen  finds  herself    (v.   1341),  the 

"  Cf.  Violet  Paget's  essay  on  Medieval  Love  in  Euplwrion,  and 
Bedier,  Les  Lais  de  Marie  de  France,  Revue  des  Deux  Mondcs,  CVII, 
852. 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  199 

chain  of  his  forging  (v.   1355),  stand  in  sharp  contrast 
with  the  "large  reyne"  proffered  her  by  Arveragus. 

The  trap,  after  all,  is  not  a  real  one;  Dorigen's  condi- 
tion is  not  actually  fulfilled,  for  the  removal  of  the  rocks 
is  but  a  passing  illusion,  a  seeming,  an  appearance,^*'/ 
not  an  objective  reality,  like  Merlin's  placing  of  the 
Giant's  Dance  at  Stonehenge.  The  art  which  produced 
such  illusions  was  practiced  by  heathen  folk ;  it  was  "a 
supersticious  cursednesse"  (v.  1272),^^  and  it  is  clearly 
not  by  chance  that  Aurelius  is  thus  allied  with  the  powers 
of  evil,  described  as  calling  upon  Apollo  and  Venus,  and 
as  thanking  them  when  at  last  they  seem  to  grant  his 
prayer,  while  Dorigen  is  represented  as  swearing  by  the 
God  of  the  Christians  when  she  rejects  Aurelius,^^  and 
apostrophizing  him  in  regard  to  the  problem  of  evil.^^ 
There  is  thus,  in  tlie  Franhlins  Tale,  if  not  confusion,  at 
least  conflict,  of  creeds. 

The  central  motive  of  the  story  is  essentially  an  apologue  ,1 
theme,  a  theme  for  a  moral  tale.  But  Chaucer  was,  asU 
has  been  said,  interested  even  more  in  its  concrete  than  in 
its  abstract  possibilities,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  characters 
and  emotions  of  the  persons  concerned,  and  by  virtue  of 
this  interest  the  story  becomes  something  more  than  mere 
'apologue,  still  retaining,  however,  certain  characteristics 
of  apologue  structure.  This  conflict  of  abstract  and  con- 
crete interests,  of  two  distinct  literary  types,  accounts  for 
most  of  the  peculiarities  of  structure  of  the  FranJclin's 
Tale. 

It  is  896  lines,  nearly  7,500  words,  in  length.     It  is  a 

"Cf.  ^n.r.   1140,   1158,    1264ff.,    1295f. 
"Cf.  vv.  1132ff. 
«  Vv.  989,  1000. 
"Vv.  865ff. 


200  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

single  episode,  divided  into  five  events,  and  preceded  by 
a  relatively  long  introduction.^^  It  is  difficult  to 
draw  hard  and  fast  lines  between  the  events ;  they 
do  not  form  distinct  masses  like  the  events  in  the 
Reeve's  Tale.  Yet  they  are,  relatively,  not  more 
numerous,  for  the  Reeve's  Tale  is  less  than  half  as  long 
(3,350  words)  and  has  three  events.^^  This  relative 
fewness  of  events  makes  possible  a  considerable  elabora- 
tion, and  all  but  the  last  two  may  be  properly  regarded 
as  scenes.  In  each  of  the  first  three,  that  is,  there  is 
some  emphasis  of  time  and  place  relations,  unity  of 
dramatis  personge,  detailed  incidents,  and  dialogue.  From 
the  human  point  of  view,  because  of  its  emotional  possi- 
bilities, and  from  the  point  of  view  of  dramatic  structure, 
the  third  scene  (the  disappearance  of  the  rocks  and  its 
results)  is  the  most  important;  it  is,  therefore,  the  longest. 
Xext  in  interest  and  length  is  the  first  (Aurelius  declares 
his  love).  The  last  event  (the  magician  releases  Aurelius), 
most  important  from  the  point  of  view  of  apologue,  since 
it  forms  the  logical  climax  of  the  story,  is  emotionally 
least  interesting,  and  therefore  briefest.  Partly,  perhaps, 
in  an  attempt  to  avoid  anti-climax,  partly,  perhaps,  because 
of  a  certain  distaste  for  the  inevitable  symmetry  of  the 

"  Introduction    ( vv.    729-900)     19 

I.     Aurelius  Declares  His  Love   (vv.  901-1086)    21 

II.     Aurelius  Brings  the  Magician  from  Orleans   {w.  1100-1238)  .16 

III.  The  Disappearance  of  the  Rocks  and  its  Consequences    (vv. 

1256-1458)    23 

IV.  Aurelius   Releases  Dorigen   ( vv.  1459-1556)    11 

V.     The    Magician    Releases   Aurelius    (vv.    1557-1620)     07 

Transitions  and  Connections   03 

"  The  contrast  with  the  Man  of  Law's  Tale  is  striking.  It  is  only 
168  lines  longer  than  the  Franklin's  Tale,  but  consists  of  a  series  of 
more  than  a  dozen  events,  grouped  into  several  distinct  episodes.  It 
is  thus  conceived  as  a  long  romance  or  an  epic  poem. 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  201 

two  events,  Chancer  j)asses  rapidly,  too,  over  the  fourth 
event  (Aurelius  releases  Dorigen),  which,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  impending  fifth  event,  might  have  been  effectively 
elaborated  as  climax  and  close  of  the  story.  Apologue 
treatment  of  the  original  theme  demanded  emphasis  of 
three  deeds  of  increasingly  astonishing  magnanimity, 
requiring  increasing  elaboration  of  the  last  three  events. 
Fabliau  or  short-story  treatment  demanded  emphasis  of 
a  series  of  emotional  situations  leading  up  to  an  emotional 
climax  in  the  untying  of  the  knot,  requiring  special 
elaboration  of  the  fourth  event  of  the  story.  Chaucer 
attempted  to  compromise  these  conflicting  requirements, 
and  the  result  is  the  apparent  lack  of  firmness  of  grasp, 
and  the  anti-climax  and  symmetrical  close,  which  we  have 
in  the  FranJcliri's  Tale. 

Moreover,  from  the  modern  point  of  view,  at  any  rate, 
Chaucer's  method  of  elaborating  his  two  great  scenes  leaves 
something  to  be  desired.  Even  from  the  medieval  point 
of  view  it  was  conventional.^^  For  the  third  scene  owes 
its  length  mainly  (100  of  the  211  lines)  to  Dorigen's 
enumeration  of  exempla ;  and  of  the  first  scene  about  one- 
third  (60  of  the  186  lines)  is  taken  up  with  the  "com- 
plaint" of  Aurelius,  and  his  prayer  to  Apollo  and  Venus. 
For  the  rest,  however,  these  scenes  are  elaborated  much 
as  in  modern  narratives, — by  emphasis  of  time,  place, 
detailed   incidents,   dialogue,   and   description,   or  expres- 

''"  Cf.  Schofield,  M.  L.  A.,  XVI,  444f.  Hinckley,  Notes  on  Chaucer, 
p.  239,  regards  "the  long  and  uninteresting  list  of  virtuous  women, 
which  retards  the  story  without  exculpating  the  heroine,"  as  an 
indication  of  Chaucer's  immaturity  and  as  evidence  for  the  early 
date  of  the  Franklin's  Tale.  Saintsbury,  Cambridge  History  of 
English  Literature,  II,  217,  is  perhaps  thinking  of  such  passages  as 
this  when  he  says  that  "it  is  by  no  means  cei-tain  that  in  his  dis- 
plays of  learning  Chaucer  is  not  mocking  or  parodying  others  as 
well  as  relieving  himself." 


202  WALTER  MOEE.IS  HAKT. 

sion,  of  emotion.  There  is,  as  has  been  said,  but  little  in 
the  way  of  visualization ;  the  background  is  but  dimly  seen, 
and  the  figures  do  not  clearly  detach  themselves  from 
it.  The  story  is  therefore  not  strong  in  pictorial  situa- 
tions, in  moments  when  "the  characters  fall  *  *  *  into 
some  attitude  to  each  other  or  to  nature,  which  stamps  the 
story  home  like  an  illustration."^^  If  the  lines  which  tell 
how  Dorigen  gazed  upon  the  rocks  have  any  of  this  quality, 
it  is  due  almost  wholly  to  the  reader's  imagination : 

But  whan  she  saugh  the  grisly  rokkes  blake, 

For  verray  fere  so  wolde  hir  herte  quake, 

That  on  hir  feet  she  niighte  hir  noght  sustene. 

Than  wolde   she  sitte  adoun  upon  the  grene, 

And  pitously   in-to   the   see  biholde, 

And  seyn  right  thus,  with  sorweful  sykes  colde  (w.  859fif.). 

Visualization  is  left  largely  to  the  reader,  yet  the  passage 

is  immensely  suggestive,  and  sets  the  imagination  at  work 

in  the  pictorial  way,  much  as  when  Beo^vulf's  faithful 

retainers  stared  at  the  sea,  hoping  against  hope  for  their 

lord's  return,  or  when  stout  Cortez  and  all  his  men  stared 

at  the  Pacific,  silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien.     Similarly 

pictorial  by  suggestion  is  the  meeting  of  Dorigen  and  her 

lover,  "amidde  the  toun,  right  in  the  quikkest  strete"  (v. 

1502).     With  such  passages  as  these,  the  best  in  their  kind 

to  the""  found  in  the  Franklin's  Tale,  it  is  enlightening  to 

contrast  the  description  of  Chauntecleer : 

He  loketh  as  it  were  a  grim  leoun; 

And  on  his  toos  he  rometh  up  and  doun. 

Him  deyned  not  to  sette  his  foot  to  grounde. 

He  chukketh,  whan  he  hath  a  corn  y-founde, 

And  to  him  rennen  thanne  his  wyves  alle. 

Thus  royal,  as  a  prince  is  in  his  halle, 

Leve  I  this  Chauntecleer  in  his  pasture  (B,  vv.  4369flf.). 

The  difference  in  method  needs  no  comment. 
"  R.  L.  Stevenson,  Memories  and  Portraits,  p.  256. 


THE    FKANKLIn's   TALE.  203 

"Situation,"  however,  has  another  meaning.  It  may  be 
simply  the  point  in  a  story  "at  which  the  actors  are  *  * 
brought  together  significantly."^^  From  the  point  of  view 
thus  suggested  the  Franklins  Tale  may  be  regarded  as 
mainly  a  succession  of  situations,  of  situations,  perhaps, 
rather  than  events  or  scenes,  for  what  Chaucer  gives  us 
is  not  so  much  action  as  a  series  of  readjustments  of  the 
interrelations  of  the  persons.  "^ 

Not  unexpected,  then,  is  the  large  amoimt  of  generalized 
narrative,  summing  up  the  antecedent  events  of  the  mar- 
riage of  Dorigen  and  Arveragus,  the  transitional  events 
of  the  years  of  Arveragus's  absence  and  of  Aurelius's 
despair,  or  recounting  the  habitual  actions  of  Dorigen. 
The  exempla  of  Dorigen's  long  "complaint"  are  in  the 
form  of  still  more  rapid  summary.  Like  the  exempla  in 
the  Nuns  Priest's  Tale,  they  constitute  a  descending 
series,  in  which  the  succeeding  tales  are  dealt  with  in  more 
and  more  summary  fashion.  Characteristic  of  this  kind 
of  narration  are  the  "often's"  (vv.  848,  853)  and  the 
generalizing  "would's," — "ther  wolde  she  sitte  and  thinke" 
(v.  857),  "so  wolde  hir  herte  quake"  (v.  860), — which 
interfere  somewhat  with  the  pictorial  suggestion  of  this 
situation.  Curious  enough  is  the  effect  of  the  passage 
quoted  just  above,  in  which  it  is  said  that  when  Dorigen 
sat  by  the  brink  and  saw  the  grizzly  black  rocks,  her  heart 
would  so  tremble  with  fear  "that  on  hir  feet  she  mighte 
hir  noght  sustene"  (v.  861),  whereupon  she  would  sit  down 
on  the  green.^^  The  lines  that  follow  seem  to  imply  that 
Dorigen  was  in  the  habit  of  repeating,  word   for  word, 

"  C.  S.  Baldwin,  A  College  Manual  of  Rhetoric,  p.  150. 

"  Reconstructors  of  the  "inner  history"  of  anonymous  poems  would 
find  in  such  a  passage  as  this,  with  its  inconsistencies  and  its 
"vicious  repetition,"  ideal  proof  of  "different  hands"  and  "variant 
versions." 


204  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

her  interesting  monologue  in  regard  to  the  problem  of 
evil.  This  whole  tendency,  manifestly  enough,  makes 
away  from  concreteness  and  vividness ;  in  the  last  example 
it  even  shows  a  complete  failure  to  grasp  as  concrete  at 
all  what  is  of  necessitv  a  concrete  situation. 

The  large  amount  of  merely  introductory  or  transitional 
matter,  the  failure  to  crystallize  all  the  incidents  of  the 
story  in  a  few  clear-cut  scenes  or  situations,  the  very 
marked  tendency  toward  generalized  narrative,  seem  to 
imply  a  lack  of  sureness,  a  lack  of  firmness  of  handling, 
almost  a  kind  of  fumbling  with  the  matter  in  hand.  And 
yet  the  first  part  of  the  story  is  admirably  managed.  The 
careful  pre])aration  for  the  peculiar  form  of  Dorigen's 
rash  promise  is  indeed  very  noteworthy,  and  comparable, 
in  its  way,  with  Shakespeare's  treatment  of  the  pound-of- 
flesh  motive  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  Just  as  Shakes- 
peare leads  up  to  the  proposal  of  the  bond  by  the  discussion 
of  interest,^*^  Chaucer  avoids  all  shock  of  unrealitv  in 
Dorigen's  condition  by  most  careful  and  gi-adual  prepara- 
tion.^^ When,  by  force  of  time,  and  because  of  letters 
which  she  received  from  Arveragus,  Dorigen's  great  sor- 
row began  to  assuage  somewhat,  she  consented  to  walk  in 
company  with  her  friends.  But  her  castle  stood  by  the 
sea,  and  as  they  walked  along  the  shore,  the  many  ships, 
not  one  of  them  all  bringing  back  her  lord,  served  but  to 
renew  her  grief.  Turning  from  the  ships,  her  eye  fell 
upon  their  enemies  the  rocks,  and  her  heart  trembled  so 
with  fear  that  her  feet  could  not  sustain  her.  These 
hostile  black  rocks,  she  thought,  were  created  for  naught 

"Cf.  ]\Ioulton,  Shakespeare  as  a  Dramatic  Artist,  pp.  62ff. 

"A  closer  and  more  modern  parallel  is  to  be  found  in  The  Oreat 
Divide,  wliere  Mr.  Moody  is  less  successful  than  Cliaucer,  in  solving, 
however,  a  more  difficult  problem  in  preparation  and  motivation. 


THE  franklin's  tale.  205 

but  to  injiu'o  and  destroy  mankind.  Her  mind  dwelt  on 
the  problem  of  evil.  Her  friends  now  chose  "places  delit- 
ables"  for  their  walks,  and  one  day  in  a  fair  garden  she 
saw  Aureliiis  dancing  with  the  others.  When  they  were 
alone  he  declared  his  love.  In  her  reply  it  is  clear  that  she 
is  thinking  first  of  Anrelius,  then  of  herself,  as  a  faith- 
ful wife,  then,  naturally,  of  her  liusband,  with  whom  she 
has  now  come  to  associate,  through  her  hopes  for  his 
return  and  through  her  fears  for  the  danger  of  the  voyage, 
the  black  rocks  of  Brittany.  Thinking  of  Arveragus,  of 
her  love,  her  fear,  the  absurdity  of  Aurelius's  petition 
strikes  her,  and  so  "in  pleye," — by  way  of  ironical 
emphasis,  not  to  spare  her  lover's  feelings,  but  rather  to 
deride  him,  she  says  that  she  will  gTant  him  her  love, — 
yes,  when  he  has  removed  all  those  dread  rocks  from  the 
shores  of  Brittan}'.^-  Her  condition  is  "an  impossible," 
as  Aurelius  declares;  it  is  to  be  understood  like  the  "when 
sun  and  moon  dance  on  the  green"  of  the  ballads,  like  the 
"when  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear"  of  Burns,  as  a  peri- 
phrasis for  never.     Her  final  words  are  scornful : 

"What  deyntee  sholde  a  man  ban  in  liis  lyf 
For  to  go  love  another  mannes  wyf?"   (vv.  1003f.). 

Her  threefold  rejection  of  Aurelius  is  thus  not  emphatic, 
courteous,  scornful,  but,  in  climactic  order,  emphatic, 
derisive,  scornful.  As  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  this 
jesting  promise  is  taken  seriously  by  an  enemy,  and 
results  as  disastrous  as  they  are  unexpected  seem  immi- 
nent. Thus  the  whole  matter  of  the  rocks  is  significant 
as  leading  to  the  threatened  catastrophe,  as  a  dramatic 

"  "The  promise  of  Dorigen  was  really  a  vow  to  be  constant  as  a 
rock  to  her  husband.  In  taking  her  literally,  Aurelius  knew  that 
he  was  taking  her  contrary  to  her  meaning.  This  is  explicitly 
acknowledged  in  v.  IGOl."     Hinckley,  'Notes  on  Chaucer,  p.  239. 


206  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

"moment  of  excitation,"  and  in  that  part  of  the  narrative 
which  deals  with  the  fulfilment  of  Dorigen's  condition  and 
with  her  escape  from  her  predicament  we  have  somewhat 
the  same  sort  of  gradual  approach  to  an  objective  point.^^ 
The  approach  is  now  gradual,  not  so  much  for  purposes 
of  emphasis  and  verisimilitude,  as  it  is  for  purposes  of 
suspense  created  hj  delay.  Otherwise  suspense  seems 
little  thought  of;  indeed  the  Franklin  seeks  rather  to 
reassure  his  hearers :  Dorigen  "may  have  better  fortune 
than  yow  semeth,"  he  says.  But  one  imagines  that  they 
had  guessed  that  already.^"* 

The  Franklin  s  Tale  is,  then,  eminently  dramatic,  in 
that  it  was  conceived  and  written  as  an  integral  part  of 
the  drama  of  the  Canterbury  Tales,  springing  from  the 
;  character  of  the  narrator  and  his  relation  to  his  fellow- 
pilgrims,  from  the  dramatic  situation  of  the  Pilgrimage. 
j^  The  Franklin  described  it  as  a  Breton  lay,  yet  did  not 
'    attempt  to  invest  it  with  the  glamor  of  the  past,  or  to 
\\  relate  it  to  the  Celtic  other-world.     His  settings,  indeed, 
are  but  vaguely  conceived   and  vaguely  described.     The 
persons  of  his  tale,  too,  are  but  dimly  seen  and  conven- 

"  There  is  an  interesting  instance  of  failure  to  provide  for  the 
necessities  of  the  working  out  of  the  story.  After  the  removal  of  the 
rocks,  An'eragus,  for  purposes  of  suspense,  must  be  away  from  home. 
Otherwise  Dorigen's  despair,  which  she  was  unable  to  conceal,  could 
have  no  duration,  would  not  be  sufficiently  impressive  or  "convinc- 
ing." This,  clearly  enough,  (Jhaucer  has  not  foreseen,  and  inserts 
only  at  the  last  moment,  when  the  situation  requires  it,  the  line, 
"For  out  of  toune  was  goon  Arveragus"  (v.  1351).  The  careful 
and  timely  motivation  of  his  earlier  absence  ("I  could  not  love 
thee,  dear,  so  much,  loved  I  not  honor  more")  is  to  be  contrasted 
with  this.  Stevenson's  discussion  of  a  similar  omission  in  Scott  is 
interesting. 

"  It  is  possibly  in  the  interests  of  suspense  that  Chaucer  refrains 
from  laying  greater  stress  upon  Arveragus's  foresight  of  the 
behavior  of  Aurelius. 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  207 

tionally  characterized.     Yet  they  are  firmly  grasped  as 
types,  and  between  two  of  them,  the  man  of  action  and^ 
the  sentimentalist,  the  distinction  is  clear  and  consistenf^ 
though   never   carried   too   far.     Our   impression  of   the 
characters   is  conveyed  by  means   of  what  they  do   and 
say,    and   by   the   effects  which   they   produce   upon   one 
another.     The    Franklin's    Tale,    however,    is    less    note- 
worthy as  a  study  of  character  than  as  a  study  of  mental    / 
states ;  for  comj^leteness  of  the  lines  of  emotion  and  for  / 
the    dramatic, — audible    or    visible, — expression    of    all  / 
degrees   of  joy   and   sorrow   it   stands   alone   among  the  ' 
Canterbury    tales.     Yet    its    central    motive    is    not    an 
emotion,  but  a  concept, — the  contagious  influence  of  good. 
This   "good"   is  truth,   honor;   it  involves   self-sacrifice; 
and   it  constitutes,   in  its   strangeness,   its   optimism,   its 
dramatic  quality,   the  essential  charm  of  the  story.     It 
requires  the  emphasis  of  the  unusual  relation  of  a  husband 
and  wife.     In  conflict  with  their  ideal  and  perfect  love 
stands  a  baser  passion,  which,  to  attain  its  end,  makes 
use  of  a  passing  illusion,  the  appearance  of  a  miracle. 

The  contagious  influence  of  good  is  an  apologue  theme, 
and  the  anti-climax  and  symmetrical  close  of  the  FranJc- 
lin's  Tale  are  doubtless  due  to  an  attempt  to  reconcile  the 
technical  demands  of  exemplum  and  pure  narrative.  The 
tendency  to  narrate  in  general  terms,  the  absence  of  visual- 
ization and  of  pictorial  situations  may  perhaps  be  traced 
to  the  same  cause.  Yet  the  tale  abounds  in  suggestive 
situations,  is  itself  perhaps  to  be  regarded  as  a  situation. 
And  there  is  no  lack  of  evidence  of  grasjD  of  the  whole, 
of  "preparation"  for  purposes  of  verisimilitude,  of  steady 
approach,  gradual,  yet  without  suspense^,  to  an  objective 
point. 


208  WALTER    MORRIS   IIART. 

II.     The  Franklin's  Tale  and  the  Breton  Lays. 

Whether  or  not  the  Fraiiklin's  declaration  in  regard 
to  the  source  of  his  tale  is  to  be  taken  seriously,  it  is  at 
least  a  challenge  to  compare  his  story  of  Dorigen  and 
Arveragus   with   undoubted   Breton  lays.     Such    a   com- 
parison   reveals   many   resemblances,    and   these   are   not 
merely  of  the  obvious  sort,  such  as  the  selection  of  Brittany 
as  the  scene  of  action,  but  much  that  seems,  at  first  glance, 
peculiar  to   Chaucer,  may  be  paralleled   in  the  lays  of 
Marie  de  France,  or  in  other  stories  of  the  same  type. 
The   treatment   of   character    is    similar.     Marie's    hero, 
Lanval,  springing  up  and  advancing  courteously  to  meet 
the  attendants  of  the  fairy  queen,  thus  showing  his  breed- 
ing,   revealing    his    character   by    pantomime,    may   well 
remind   us   of   Aurelius,    dancing   "passinge   any   man." 
Often,   too,   IMarie's   persons   are   like   the   Franklin's   in 
that  they  are  not  visualized,  and  in  that,  if  they  reveal 
themselves  by  speech,  it  is  by  what  they  say  merely,  and 
not  by  the  manner  of  saying  it.     Both   Marie  and  the 
Franklin   make   use   of   the   conventional   epithets, — like 
"valiant"   and  "courteous," — for  the  conventional  quali- 
ties.    Equally  conventional  are  the  emotions ;  and  in  no 
single  lay  is  there  gi-eater  variety  than  in  the  Franklin's 
Tale.     Professor  Schofield  calls  attention  to  the   resem- 
blance  of   the   despairing  lovers,   Aurelius    and    Lanval; 
both  experience  the  sharp  contrasts  of  joy  and  sorrow.^  ° 
It  is  not  possible,  however,  to  trace  complete  "lines  of 
emotion,"  and  Marie's  vocabulary  of  the  pmoti(ms  is  not 
so  large  as  the  Franklin's.     Yet  she  has  not  quite  the 
Franklin's  reticence;   she  is  not  content  with   telling  us 
that  Lanval's  heritage  was  far  hence,  in  a  distant  land, 
all  his  money  gone, — for  King  Arthur  gave  him  nothing, 

"Cf.  M.  L.  A.,  XVI,  428f.,  Franklin's  Tale,  vv.  101  Off.,  and  Lanval, 
w.  255ff. 


THE   franklin's  TALE.  209 

and  he  knew  not  where  to  seek  for  aid ;  she  adds  that  he 
was  much  perplexed  and  very  sorrowful  and  heavy  of 
heart.  Like  Aurelius  and  Dorigen  tho  heroes  of  the  lays  > 
reveal  their  strong  feeling  by  "automatic  reactions."  The 
frequent  swoonings  in  the  English  Emare  recall  Aure- 
lius. And  a  similar  method  is  revealed  in  Tyolei  in  the 
knight's  wagging  liis  head  at  those  who  mocked  him,  in  the 
false  knight's  saying  never  a  word  when  he  is  caught  in 
a  lie,  but  reddening  and  frowning  as  one  ashamed.  In. 
the  same  manner  Guigemar's  heart  is  set  in  a  tumult  bv 
love ;  he  sighs  in  sore  anguish,  passes  the  night  in  sighing 
and  sore  trouble,  remembering  her  words  and  her  manner, 
her  shining  eyes  and  her  sweet  mouth,  that  had  brought 
this  sorrow  into  his  heart.^* 

In  the  matter  of  structure  there  are  some  general,  though 
not  very  significant,  resemblances  between  the  lays  and  ■' 
the  Franklin's  Tale.  There  is  the  same  tendency  to  begin 
with  a  formal  introduction  in  general  terms,  the  same 
tendency  to  make  use  of  narrative  in  general  terms,^*^  and 
an  absence  of  the  vigorous  handling  and  excellence  of 
proportion,  so  noteworthy  in  the  fabliaux.  Yet,  where  it 
is  necessary,  Marie  is  quite  capable  of  making  careful 
preparation  for  succeeding  events,  as  where  she  empha- 
sizes the  silken  mantle  and  the  ring  by  which  the  heroine 
of  La  Frene  is  to  be  identified  at  a  critical  moment;'**^  or 
as  where  she  carefully  motives  the  transition  from  love 
to  hate  in  the  queen's  feeling  toward  Lanval.'*^  Marie 
is  capable,  too,  of  the  gradual  approach  to  an  objective 
point, ^^  yet  she  makes  no  attempt  to  keep  the  reader  in 

"  Guigemar,  vv.  379ff. 

^*  Cf.  Lanval  or  Bisclavret. 

"Cf.  La  Frine,  vv.  I'ilff.,  301ff..  390ff.,  484ff. 

*' Lanval,  vv.  261ff. 

"  Cf.  the  "gradation"  of  the  opening  event  in  Bisclavret. 


210  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

doubt,  and,  like  the  Fraukliu,  tells  what  the  end  is  to 
be  before  she  reaches  it.'*^  It  is  interesting  to  comj)are 
her  treatment  of  the  werwolf  with  that  of  a  modern 
author;  Marie  lets  the  reader  into  the  secret  at  once.  S. 
Carleton,  in  The  Lame  PriestJ^^  gives  the  reader  increas- 
ingly definite  suggestions  as  to  the  solution  of  the  mystery, 
yet  never  really  solves  it  for  him. 

Finally  there  is  in  the  lays  a  suggestion  of  that  same 
idealism  which  is  the  essential  charm  of  the  Franhlins 
Tale.  The  persons  are  of  noble  birth,  and  their  characters 
are  vaguely  idealized.  The  first  wife  of  Eliduc,  who  gives 
up  her  rights  to  a  second,  and  La  Frene,  who  consents 
in  all  humility  to  her  lover's  marriage  with  another,  have 
a  generosity  as  ideal  (and  as  difficult  for  us  to  sympathize 
with)  as  that  of  Arveragus.  Only  for  Frene  (from  our 
point  of  view)  does  the  story  end  well  and  encourage  the 
timidly  unselfish  with  an  example  of  the  safety  of  apparent 
self-sacrifice. 

These  are  some  of  the  technical  similarities  of  the 
Franklin's  Tale  and  the  Breton  lays;  the  differences  are 
more  striking. 

Not  one  of  the  lays,  in  the  first  place,  has  the  dramatic 
or  personal  quality  of  the  Franhlins  Tale.  Few,  if  any, 
dispense  so  completely  with  the  atmosphere,  the  glamor, 
of  the  past,  which  the  subject-matter  demands. ^^     While 

"  Cf.  La  Frene,  v.  304,  and  Les  Dous  Anianz,  w.  185ff. 

**  Atlantic  Monthly,  LXXXVIII,  760ff. 

*^  Cf.  the  opening  lines  of  Tyolet,  describing  the  England  of 
Arthur's  time,  when  there  were  fewer  folk  in  the  land,  and  knights, 
wandering  through  the  country  without  even  a  squire  for  company, 
seeking  adventures  by  day  or  by  dusky  night,  often  found  neitlier 
house  nor  tower.  "In  Brittany  of  old  time  there  reigned  a  king" 
sounds  more  like  the  FranJclin's  Tale,  but  in  that  Brittany  Guingamor 
rode  through  the  adventurous  land,  over  a  meadow  where  the  turf 
was  green  and  llowery,  and  saw  the  walls  of  a  great  palace,  well 
built,  yet  without  mortar. 


THE    FKANKLIN  S   TALE.  211 

some  produce  the  same  impression  of  isolation,  others  are 
more  elaborate  in  their  geography  than  the  Franklin's 
Tale,  and  the  lay  of  Two  Lovers  attaches  itself  to  a  locality 
real  and  known.  Marie  usually  surpasses  the  Franklin 
in  the  visualization  of  the  scene  of  action,  in  sense  for 
the  beauty  and  color  of  the  background.  The  Franklin 
draws  no  picture  so  vivid  as  that  scene  in  the  lay  where 
Lanval  lies  alone  in  the  green  meadov/,  his  horse  grazing 
beside  him,  and  watches  the  approach  of  the  two  fair 
maidens,  clad  in  purple  gray,  bearing  the  towel  of  white 
linen  and  the  basin  of  gold.  There  is  contrast  of  the  same 
sort  in  the  treatment  of  the  social  setting;  it  is  indeed 
rather  surprising  that  in  this  respect  the  lays  should  be 
more  realistic  than  Chaucer's  tale,  but  such  is  the  case.*^ 
ISTot  only  by  relating  them  to  the  world  of  men,  but  also 
by  visualizing  them,  are  the  persons  of  the  lays  made  to 
seem  more  real.  AVhile  Chaucer  is  content  with  bare 
mention  of  Dorigen's  high  rank,  Marie  is  at  pains  to 
describe  the  supernatural  beings  of  her  lays,  in  order  to 
convince  us  of  their  powers.'*'^  This  visualization,  more- 
over, is  not  confined  to  supernatural  beings ;  the  naively 
charming,  if  somewhat  conventional,  passage  in  the  Earl 
of  Toulous  describes  an  empress  ''showing  openly  her  face" 
for  the  love  of  a  knight.'*^ 

"Compare,  for  example,  the  historical  setting  of  Lanval:  King 
Arthur  was  sojourning  at  Cai'duel  because  of  the  Picts  and  the 
Scots,  who  had  greatly  destroyed  the  land,  for  they  were  in  the 
kingdom  of  Logres  and  often  wrought  mischief  therein.  The 
heroine  of  Doon  is  not  merely  a  lady  of  high  i-ank,  but  has  definite 
powers  as  ruler. 

"  Cf.  Lanval,  vv.  553ff. 

**The  description  recalls  Chaucer's  Prioress: 


212  WALTER  MOKEIS  HART. 

Aside  from  personal  api)earance,  however,  the  reader 
learns  far  more  of  character  from  the  Frankliri's  Tale 
I  than  from  the  lays.  In  tlie  latter  the  persons  are  scarcely 
»  even  types;  they  are  not,  at  any  rate,  differentiated; 
all  are  valiant,  courteous,  and  beautiful.  Even  Dorigen 
seems  real  if  we  place  her  beside  the  heroine  of  Boon, 
who  was  also  rich,  noble,  and  averse  to  losing  her  freedom 
in  marriage.^^  Contrasts  are  confined  to  characters 
merely  good  and  bad;  the  lays  have  nothing  so  subtle  as 
the  difference  between  Arveragus  and  Aurelius.  The  per- 
sons in  the  lays  are  simply  good  and  bad,  and  evil  char- 
acters are  not,  like  Aurelius,  endowed  with  redeeming 
qualities. 

The  lays,  as  we  have  just  seen,  show  something  like 

Hur  eyen  were  gray  as  any  glas, 
Mowthe   and   nose   schapen    was 

At  all  nianer  ryght ; 
Fro  the  forhedd  to  the  too, 
Bettur  schapen  myght  non  goo, 

Nor  none  semelyer  yn  syght. 

Twyes  sche  turnyd  hur  abowte, 
Betwene  the  erlys  that  were  stowte, 

For   the   erle   schulde   hur   see; 
When  sche  spake  wyth  mylde  ste\-yn, 
Sche  semyd  an  aungell  of  he^yn, 

So  feyre  sche  was  of  blee. 

Hur  syde  longe,  hur  myddyll  small, 
Schouldurs,  amies,  therwythall, 

Fayrer  myght  non  bee; 
Hur  hondys  whyte  as  whallys  bonne 
Wyth  fyngurs  longe  and  ryngys  upon 

Hur  nayles  bryght  of  blee  (vv.  340fr.). 

"Like  Dorigen,  she  required  of  her  suitors  the  performance  of 
impossible  tasks.  But  when  they  did  ride  from  Soutliampton  to 
Edinburgh  in  a  day,  she,  instead  of  contemplating  suicide,  put  them 
to  death,  after  the  manner  of  the  raiirchen  heroine. 


THE    FRANKLIN  S   TALE.  213 

Chaucer's  interest  in  the  emotions ;  with  them,  indeed, 
the  passion  of  lovo  is  regularly  the  central  motive,  and 
they  do  not  come  nearer  a  pure  concept  than  the  general 
notion  of  love  which  underlies  Guigemar, — that  neglect 
of  love  leads  to  excessive  suffering  through  love.^*^  We 
find,  indeed,  the  same  insistence  on  the  importance  of  a 
vow;  Sir  Degare  has  won  a  lady  by  his  valor,  but  at  the 
beginning  of  the  very  marriage  ceremony,  remembers  his 
vow  to  marry  no  one  whom  certain  gloves  will  not  fit. 
We  can  find  a  fair  example  even  of  the  contagious  influ- 
ence of  good,  when,  in  the  Earl  of  Toulous,  the  Empress 
Beulyboon  insists  that  Sir  Trylabas  must  keep  his  word, 
bring  the  earl,  her  husband's  enemy,  to  see  her,  and  let 
him  depart  unharmed.  Sir  Trylabas  felt  that  her  reproof 
was  well  deserved,  and  did  not  at  that  time  harm  the  earl. 
Later,  however,  though  he  owed  much  to  the  earl's  gen- 
erosity, he,  with  two  other  knights,  treacherously  attacked 
and  sought  to  slay  him.  There  is,  too,  a  formulated 
moral  at  the  end  of  Equitan,  to  the  effect  that  he  who 
digged  the  pit  must  lie  in  it,  and  the  same  notion  is 
implied  in  the  birth  of  the  twins  in  La  Frene.^^  But  all 
this  is  exceptional ;  normally  the  lay  is  not  in  the  least 
interested  in  abstract  or  general  ideas,  and,  normally,  it 
is  utterly  unmoral.  Thus  in  Emare  the  Pope  is  said  to 
sanction  the  marriage  of  a  father  and  daughter,  or,  in 
ElidiLC,  to  permit  the  hero  to  take  a  second  wife  while 
the  first  one  lives.  In  Yonec  the  hero  kills  his  mother's 
husband  ;  and  in  La  Frene  the  relations  of  hero  and  heroine 
are  regarded  as  a  matter  of  course.     It  was  clearly  not  the 

*''  Seven    Lays   of  Marie  de   France,   translated  bj^   Edith   Rickert, 
p.  168. 

"  To    a    woman    who    had    declared    that    twins    and    fidelity    are 
incompatible. 


V 


214  WALTER   MOERIS   HAE.T. 

way  of  the  lay  to  seize  upon  an  apologue  theme  and  attempt 
to  make  of  it  a  romantic  story. 

Most  striking  of  all  is,  perhaps,  the  treatment  of  the 
supernatural.  ^  Beside  the  Franklin's  scepticism  stands 
simple  belief;  beside  a  mere  sham,  appearance,  illusion, 
stand  real  fairy  queens  and  kings,  living  in  a  real  fairy- 
land, reached  only  through  caves  or  over  perilous  rivers ; 
stand  also  actual  transformations  from  stag,  or  wolf,  or 
bird  to  knight  or  lover.  The  draught,  finally,  which  the 
young  lover  brought  from  Salerno  was  of  a  real,  not  an 
imaginary,  potency ;  it  would  have  made  possible  a  super- 
human feat  of  strength.  As  it  was,  the  land  where  the 
draught  was  sprinkled  was  the  richer  for  it,  and  even  to-day 
many  a  good  herb  is  found  there  that  had  its  root  in  the 
potion.  ^^ 

The  lay  did  not  seize  upon  an  apologue  theme,  and 
consequently  was  never  marred,  as  is  the  Franklins  Tale, 
by  an  unduly  symmetrical  structure.  To  this  the  nearest 
approach  is  the  coming  of  the  maidens  attendant  upon 
the  fairy  queen,  in  Lanval,  two  by  two,  leading  up  to 
the  climax  of  the  apj)earance  of  the  queen  herself.  In  this, 
however,  we  have  something  akin  to  the  simple  art  of  the 
ballad  or  folk  tale,  but  no  attempt  to  shape  by  moral 
purpose  or  logic  the  wayward  events  of  human  life. 

With  its  keener  visualization  of  persons,  with  its  rela- 
tively greater  interest  in  things  outward  and  tangible, 
the  lay  combines  a  greater  delight  in  pictorial  situations. 
This  coming  of  the  fairies  in  Lanval,  the  hero's  first  meet- 
ing with  them,  Guingamor's  first  glimpse  of  the  fairy 
princess,  Tyolet's  first  sight  of  a  knight,  who  changes 
from  stag  to  man-at-arms  before  his  eyes, — all  these,  and 
many  more,  passages  in  the  lays,  stamp  themselves  upon 

"Les  Dous  Amanz,  yv.  225flf. 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  215 

the  mind  like  illustrations.  Situation,  both  in  the  pic- 
torial sense  and  in  that  of  a  significant  assembling  of  the 
persons,  is  that  fine  passage  in  Sir  Degare,  where  the  hero, 
in  a  strange  general  silence,  sups  with  a  distressed  damsel 
in  her  castle  and  is  afterward  put  to  sleep  by  her  harping. 
The  main  interest  in  the  lays,  however,  is  in  the  plot  and 
its  strangeness;  no  lay  could  be  described,  as  one  may 
describe  the  Franklin  s  Tale,  as  a  story  of  situation,  where 
there  is  little  action,  but  simply  a  series  of  readjustments 
of  the  characters'  relations  with  one  another. 

The  Franklin  s  Tale  is,  then,  like  the  Breton  lays,  in 
that  the  scene  is  laid  in  Brittany ;  in  its  general  treatment 
of  character  and  mental  states,  its  revelation  of  emotion 
by  "automatic  reactions ;"  in  its  summary  of  antecedent 
action  and  narration  in  general  terms;  in  the  absence  of 
firm  and  vigorous  handling  of  plot,  and  of  due  emphasis 
and  proportion;  in  the  relatively  careful  preparation  for 
what  is  to  come;  in  its  steady  approach,  gradual,  yet  with- 
out suspense,  to  an  objective  point ;  and  in  its  idealism. 

The  contrasts  are  more  striking  than  the  resemblances. 
The  Franhlins  Tale  differs  from  the  lays  in  its  dramatic 
quality  and  all  that  this  implies.  It  lacks  their  vivid 
backgrounds,  their  glamor  of  the  past,  their  social  setting, 
preudo-historical,  yet  realistic  in  effect.  It  lacks  their 
visualization  of  character.  Its  persons  are  not  mere  doers 
of  deeds,  but  relatively  complex  types;  not  contrasted  as 
good  and  bad,  but,  more  subtly,  as  man  of  action  and 
sentimentalist ;  and  none  are  merely  bad,  but  the  worst 
has  redeeming  qualities.  While  it  betrays,  perhaps,  no 
greater  interest  in  mental  states,  its  lines  of  emotion  are 
far  more  complete,  and  it  is  more  dramatic  in  its  hesitation 
to  name  emotions  which  are  adequately  implied  in  the 
situation.     It  differs  from  the  lays  in  its  concern  with 


216  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

general  or  abstract  ideas,  Avith  a  moral  concept,  with  an 
apologue  theme.  It  differs  from  them  in  its  use  of  a 
false  rather  than  a  true  supernatural  element,  and  in  its 
curiously  symmetrical  structure.  And  it  lacks  their 
delight  in  pictorial  situations  and  in  action.  Thus  its 
art  differs  very  materially  from  the  art  of  the  lays. 


Ill,     The    Franklin's    Tale    and    the    Canterbury 

Pilgrimage. 

The  Franklins  Tale  was,  as  has  been  said,  written  for 
the  place  which  it  now  occupies,  and  is  to  bs  regarded  as 
an  organic  part  of  the  Drama  of  the  Canterbury  Pil- 
grimage. It  must  be  studied  not  merely  as  an  isolated 
work  of  art,  not  merely  as  an  imitation  of  the  Breton  lay, 
but  also  in  its  relation  to  the  General  Prologue,  to  the 
Prologues^^  of  the  various  tales,  and  to  the  Tales  them- 
selves. The  action  of  what  I  have  ventured  to  call  the 
Drama  of  the  Pilgrimage  begins,  towards  the  end  of  the 
General  Prologue,^'^  after  the  descriptions  of  April,  the 
Tabard  Inn,  and  the  characters  of  the  Pilgrims,  with  the 
Host's  suggestion  for  their  entertainment  on  the  road,  and 
ends  with  his  request  to  the  Parson  to  tell  the  last  tale. 
It  has  thus  at  least  a  beginning  and  an  end,  two  of  the 
requisites  of  plot.  The  middle  is  a  series  of  loosely  con- 
nected comic  incidents,  unified  by  the  dominant  personality 

"  Tliese  should  be  understood  to  include  all  the  matter  that  inter- 
venes between  the  tales. — Prologues,  Introductions,  Epilogues, 
various  "'Words  of  the  Host."  etc.  The  general  term  Prologues  is 
used  for  convenience.  The  Drama  of  the  Pilgrimage  does  not  include 
the  Prioress's  Prologue,  or  the  Envoy  of  the  Clerk's  Tale,  or  the 
Man  of  Law's  Prologue,  which  are  to  be  regarded  rather  as  parts  of 
the  tales. 

"At  verse  715. 


THE    FEANKLIn's   TALE.  217 

of  the  Host,^"'  by  the  presence  of  the  general  plan  through- 
out, and  the  mood  or  tone  of  the  whole.  Here  and  there 
are  indicated  the  shifting  scenes  (by  place-names  and 
without  visualization)  and  the  passing  time  of  the  action. 
There  are  bits  of  narrative,  too,  but  nine-tenths  of  the 
2,347  lines^*^  are  dialogue.  Of  the  speakers,  those  whom 
the  Eighteenth  Century  would  have  described  as  "loW"^^ 
have  the  most  to  say,  dominate  the  whole,  and  produce 
the  general  impression.  They  are  all  comic,  and,  for 
the  most  part,  confessedly,  or  very  evidently,  or  apparently, 
drunk.  Six  of  them,^* — seven,  if  we  include  the  Host, — 
and  only  four  of  the  other  group,^^  speak  out  of  their 
own  prologues.  Inevitably  we  learn  most  of  the  low  char- 
acters, and  we  get  the  impression  that  Chaucer  was  more 
interested  in  them  than  in  the  others. 

There  is  little  or  no  direct  description  of  the  persons ; 
Chaucer's  methods  are  here  wholly  dramatic  and  objective. 
Thus  the  Miller 

nolde  avalen  neither  hood  ne  hat, 
Ne  abyde  no  man  for  his  curteisye, 
And  in  Pilates  vois  he  gan  to  crj'e. 
And  swoor  by  armes  and  by  blood  and  bones  (A,  3122ff. ). 

"^  He  is  silent  only  in  the  Prologue  of  the  Summoner,  and  in  that 
of  the  Second  Nun,  which  has  no  connection  with  the  general  frame- 
work.    Cf.  Saintsbury,  Cainh.  Hist.  Engl.  Lit.,  II,  204. 

^^  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  the  longest  of  the  metrical  tales, 
the  Knight's,  has  only  2,550  lines. 

^^That  is,  those  low  in  rank,  or  those  who  show  themselves, 
by  what  they  say  in  their  tales  or  their  prologues,  to  be  relatively 
low  in  the  moral  scale  or  in  refinement.  They  are,  in  the  order  of 
the  length  of  their  parts,  the  Wife  of  Bath,  Host,  Pardoner,  Canon's 
Yeoman,  Summoner,  Reeve,  Maunciple,  Merchant,  Cook,  Miller, 
Friar,  Shipman,  and  Nun's  Priest.  Nearly  nine-tenths  of  the  dia- 
logue (1,807  lines)  is  assigned  to  them,  and  but  little  more  than 
one-tenth  (279  lines)  to  the  Man  of  Law,  Franklin,  Chaucer,  Clerk, 
Parson,  Monk,  Knight,  Canon,  Scjuire.  and  Prioress. 

"'  Friar,  Cook,  W'iie  of  Bath,  Reeve,  Summoner,  and  Pardoner. 

"  Chaucer,  Knight,  Monk,  and  Parson. 


218  WALTER  MOERIS  HART. 

The  "pantomime,"  the  voice,  the  oaths,  all  are  typical; 
the  reference  to  contemporary  drama  is  significant.^^ 
Perhaps  suggested  by  the  drama  is  the  convention  of  the 
confession,  of  persons'  setting  forth  their  own  characters, 
exposing,  for  the  benefit  of  the  Pilgrims,  good  and  evil, 
without  shame.  Thus  the  Keeve,  in  his  northern  dia- 
lect,— ''But  ik  am  old,  me  list  not  pley  for  age"  (A,  3867). 
Thus  the  Maunciple  confesses  to  the  Host  that  the  Cook 
might  well  reveal  his  dishonesty.  It  is  only  an  extension 
of  the  same  convention  when  the  Pardoner  discloses  his 
methods,  perhaps  inspiring  thereby  the  Wife  of  Bath's 
disclosure  of  hers.  Clearly  the  Pardoner  feels  that  she 
has  outdone  him :  "Teche  us  yonge  men  of  your  praktike," 
he  says  (D,  187).  The  persons  describe  not  only  them- 
selves but  one  another,  and  of  this  there  is  no  better 
example  than  the  gradual  revelation  of  the  true  character 
of  the  Canon,  by  Chaucer,  the  Yeoman  and  the  Host. 
The  Host  is  elsewhere  active  in  this  way,  serving  as  a 
kind  of  showman,  calling  the  Pilgrims'  attention  to  details 
of  Chaucer's,  the  Monk's,  and  the  Squire's  manner  and 
appearance  and  drawing  his  own  conclusions  in  regard 
to  character.  He  serves,  too,  as  a  kind  of  social  barometer, 
his  manner  being  adjusted,  though  not  always  with  perfect 
precision,  to  the  rank  and  importance  of  the  person  whom 
he  addresses.  It  is  interesting  to  contrast  his  "let  the 
woman  tell  hir  tale,"  addressed  to  the  Wife  of  Bath,  with 

"My  lady  Prioresse,  by  your  leve, 
So  that  I  wiste  I  sholde  yow  nat  greve, 
I  wolde  demen  that  ye  tellen  sholde 
A  tale  next,  if  so  were  that  ye  wolde. 
Now  wol  ye  vouche-sauf,  my  lady  dere?"   (B,  1636ff.)" 
•"Cf.  Gayley,  The  Plays  of  Our  Forefathers,  pp.  lllff. 

"  In  general  we  may  contrast  his  respectful  treatment  of  Knight, 
Squire,  Prioress,  Clerk,  Merchant,  Physician,  Man  of  Law,  with  his 
familiar  or  rude  manner  in  addressing  Miller,  Reeve,  Parson,  Nun's 
Priest,  Monk,  and  Franklin. 


THE   FEANKLIn's   TALE.  219 

Particularly  interesting,  as  evidence  not  only  of  Chaucer's 
tolerance,  but  also  of  his  objectivity,  his  dramatic  detach- 
ment, is  the  Host's  treatment  of  Franklin  and  of  Parson. 
In  the  General  Prologue  the  former  is  described  as  a 
person  of  great  dignity,  with  nothing  to  his  discredit  more 
serious  than  delight  in  high  living;  the  latter  is  the  most 
highly  idealized  of  all  the  Pilgrims.  Yet  Chaucer  permits 
the  Host,  whom  he  describes  as  "wys  and  wel  y-taught" 
(A,  '755),  to  say  to  one  ''Straw  for  your  gentillesse,  *  * 
telle  on  thy  tale  with-outen  wordes  mo"  (F,  695ff.)  ;  and  to 
say  to  the  other:  "O  lankin,^^  be  ye  there?  I  smelle  a 
loller  in  the  wind"  (B,  1172).  Later,  indeed,  the  Host 
makes  partial  amends,  yet  he  still  persists  in  the  offensive 
swearing,  and  urges  the  Parson  to  be  "fructuous,  and  that 
in  litel  space"  (I,  73).  Additional  evidence, — if  addi- 
tional evidence  is  necessary, — of  Chaucer's  delight  in 
describing  "low"  characters  may  be  found  in  the  portraits 
of  certain  persons  who,  though  not  among  the  PilgTims, 
come  to  be  pretty  clearly  individualized  for  us, — the 
Franklin's  account  of  his  son,  the  Merchant's  account  of 
his  wife,  the  Wife  of  Bath's  account  of  her  five  husbands, 
and,  finally,  the  masterpiece,  the  Host's  discriminating 
description  of  his  wife.  She  has  not,  he  says,  the  for- 
giving disposition  of  Dame  Prudence  in  Melibeus: 

"By  goddes  bones!    wlian   I  bete   my   knaves, 
She  bringth  me  forth  the  grete  clobbed  staves, 
And  cryeth,  'slee  the  dogges  everichoon, 
And  brek  hem,  bothe  bak  and  every  boon'  "  (B,  3087flF.) . 

Yet  he  would  not  have  us  think  that  she  was  like  the 
heroine  of  the  Merchant's  Tale;  though  she  is  a  labbing 
shrew  and  has  a  heap  of  vices  more,  she  is  as  true  as 
steel  (E,  24-2e)ff.). 

'*  Skeat's  note  on  this  line  calls  attention  to  the  derision  involved 
in  the  diminutive  "lankin." 


220  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

Chaucer's  interest  in  low  characters  was  doubtless  due 
in  part  to  the  fact  that  he  found  in  them,  as  Goethe  and 
Wordsworth  did,  centuries  later,  elementary  feelings, 
simply  combined  and  not  under  restraint,  but  expressed 
in  plain  and  emphatic  language.  Certainly  he  permits 
them  to  express  themselves  more  freely  than  their  betters. 
The  Host,  who  speaks  so  much,  scarcely  speaks  at  all 
except  under  the  stress  of  strong  feeling,  of  delight,  or 
grief,  or  wrath ;  and  it  is  from  him  and  from  such  persons 
as  the  Cook,  or  the  Shipman,  or  the  Friar,  that  we  get 
the  frankest  criticisms  of  the  tales.  For  the  Host  it  would 
be  possible  to  trace  from  Prologue  to  Prologue  a  kind  of 
"line  of  emotion."  And  it  is  of  course  the  others  of 
his  type  who  are  continually  involved  in  quarrels  and 
expressing  most  freely  and  most  feelingly  their  low 
opinions  of  one  another.  Chaucer  seems  to  have  regarded 
restraint,  on  the  other  hand,  as  a  differencing  characteristic 
of  the  other  class ;  Parson  and  Franklin  make  no  reply  to 
Host  or  Shipman;  the  Monk,  it  is  said,  took  the  Host's 
innuendo  "al  in  pacience"   (B,  315.5). 

Like  description  of  character,  the  description  of  emotion 
is  largely  in  the  dramatic  manner,  of  suggestion  by  words 
and  actions,  rather  than  direct  naming  or  analysis.  The 
Cook,  for  example,  is  seen  in  c(mtrasting  passions;  while 
the  Eeeve  spoke,  "for  Toye,  liiui  tlioughtc,  he  clawed  him 
on  the  bak"  (A,  4326).  But  when  the  Maunciple  told 
him  he  was  drunk, 

the  cook  wex  wroth  and  wraw, 
And  on  the  niaunciplo  he  gan  nodde  faste 
For  lakke  of  speche,  and  doun  the  hors  him  caste, 
Wher  as  he  lay,  til  that  men  up  him  took    (H,  46ff.). 

Emotions,  thus  violently  expressed,  are  often  the  results 
of  the  quarrels  of  the   Pilgrims,   conflicts  sometimes  of 


THE  franklin's  tale.  221 

individuals,  sometimes,  rather,  of  the  professions  or  trades 
which  they  represent.  There  is  more  of  the  personal 
element  in  the  quarrels  of  Miller  and  Reeve,  Host  and 
Pardoner.  The  Host's  good-natured  criticism  of  Cook 
and  Maunciple  has  reference,  like  the  Shipman's  attack 
on  the  Parson,  mainly  to  the  failings  peculiar  to  their 
professions.  The  Yeoman,  it  may  be  supposed,  represents 
Chaucer  or  society  at  large,  in  his  exposure  of  the  Canon's 
methods.  The  quarrel  of  Friar  and  Summoner  is  rather 
a  matter  of  professional  jealousy.  Even  in  the  case  of 
the  Miller  and  the  Reeve,  however,  the  latter's  wrath  is 
aroused  by  the  part  that  a  carpenter  plays  in  the  Miller's 
Tale,  and  he  proceeds  to  get  even  by  telling  a  tale  of  a 
miller.  In  all  cases  there  is  something  of  a  conflict  of 
trades  or  professions,  or  criticism  of  individuals  as  their 
representatives,  so  that  the  Prologues  recall  the  manner 
of  the  old  "debates"  or  fly  tings.  JS'o  two  of  them,  it  wall 
be  seen,  are  quite  alike ;  they  vary  not  only  in  relative 
emphasis  of  individual  and  trade  or  profession,  but  also  by 
virtue  of  the  differences  in  the  characters  concerned  and 
in  their  relations  to  one  another.  The  series  is  further 
saved  from  monotony  and  given  an  air  of  reality  and 
spontaneity  by  the  apparent  changes  in  the  Host's  plans 
for  the  tales,  as  when  the  drunken  JVIiller  insists  that  his 
tale,  and  not  the  Monk's,  must  follow  the  Knight's ;  or  the 
Shipman,  to  save  the  Pilgrims  from  the  Parson's  sermon, 
insists  upon  telling  his  tale;  or  the  Maunciple  volunteers 
to  take  the  place  of  the  temporarily  incapacitated  Cook. 
There  is  much  lively  detail  in  the  account  of  the  latter's 
equestrian  exploit.  In  this  respect  it  is  surpassed  only  by 
the  lively  dramatic  incident  of  the  Canon's  Yeoman's  Pro- 
logue, where  sweating  and  foam-flecked  horses  gallop  into 
the  story,  bearing  the  alchemist  and  his  assistant.     Details 


222  WALTEE  MORRIS  HART. 

of  dress  are  noted  and  interpreted,  character  is  revealed 
by  swift  question  and  answer,  and  the  Canon  rides  away 
again  in  shame,  leaving  his  reputation  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  the  Yeoman.  This  little  scene  thus  adds  to  an  interest 
in  character  like  that  of  the  Oeneral  Prologue,  an  interest 
in  the  action  of  a  specific  moment,  with  vigorous  move- 
ment, suspense,  climax,  and  lively  dialogue.  In  the  last 
respect,  indeed,  the  scene  is  but  typical  of  the  Avhole  Drama 
of  the  Pilgrimage,  which  is,  as  I  have  said,  nine-tenths 
direct  discourse.  In  the  present  instance  the  Canon  twice 
takes  part  in  the  colloquy  of  Host  and  Yeoman ;  and  else- 
where the  quarrels,  and  reconciliaions  through  the  media- 
tion of  a  peace-maker,  result  in  group  conversation.  For 
the  rest,  the  utterance  is  all  peculiarly  indicative  of 
character  and  emotion, — loquacity,  oaths,  coarseness,  and 
dialect,  contrast  appropriately  with  brevity,  refinement, 
restraint,  and  correctness  of  speech.  On  the  whole,  the 
variety  and  vigor,  the  life  and  spontaneity  of  the  frame- 
work of  the  Canterbury  Tales  present  an  interesting  con- 
trast to  the  repose  and  to  the  monotonous,  though  by  no 
means  unpleasiug,  elegance  of  the  Decameron.^^ 

The  Prologues  are,  then,  mainly  in  dramatic  form,  and 
while  Chaucer  sometimes  speaks  with  apparent  sincerity, 
in  his  own  person,  he  might  have  described  them,  as 
Brow^iing  did  his  Dramatic  Lyrics,  as  "so  many  utterances 
of  so  many  imaginary  persons,  not  mine."  I^^evertheless 
they  are,  as  Professor  Mead  has  saidj^"*  '*by  far  the  most 

*'  Chaucer's  inconsistencies, — like  the  Host's  forgetting,  in  the 
MatmcijAe's  Prologue,  that  the  Cook  has  already  told  a  tale,  or  the 
reference,  in  the  Parson's  Prologue,  to  the  Elaunciple's  Tale  as  just 
finished, — are  doubtless  due,  as  Skeat  suggests,  to  the  absence  of  a 
final  revision.  They  are  not,  in  any  case,  particularly  significant. 
Even  in  finished  work  inconsistencies  are  common  enough. 

"  M.  L.  A.,  XVI,  388. 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  223 

characteristic  and  original  part  of  his  writings.  *  *  * 
In  them  *  *  *  we  find,  perhaps  more  than  anj^vhere 
else,  the  true  Chaucer,  working  in  his  own  way,  and 
controlling  his  sources  instead  of  being  partly  controlled 
by  them."  Thus,  with  all  due  regard  to  the  "fallacy  of 
quotations,"  we  can  find  in  this  part  of  Chaucer's  work 
very  definite  indications  of  his  tendencies  and  interests, 
of  the  questions  that  occupied  his  mind,  if  not  always 
of  his  answers  to  them.  There  is,  certainly,  very  clear 
indication  of  his  self-consciousness ;  the  Host's  description, 
in  the  Prologue  to  Sir  Thopas,  is  not  a  sketch  of  a  typical 
poet,  or  a  caricature ;  it  has  every  mark  of  a  portrait  and 
gives  evidence  of  careful  self-observation.  In  the  Man  of 
Law's  Prologue  (B,  45ff.),  moreover,  as  in  the  Apology 
and  the  Retraction,*^ ^  is  ample  proof  that  the  poet  thought 
of  himself  as  the  author  of  his  works,  responsible  for 
their  matter  and  their  manner.  He  is  a  critic  of  other 
poets,  too,  as  in  the  Clerk's  praise  of  Petrarch  (E,  32ff.), 
or  the  Man  of  Law's  probable  condemnation  of  Gower 
(B,  77ff.).  It  is  clear  that  each  of  the  Pilgrims  is 
expected  to  tell  a  tale  of  a  definite  kind,^^  and  where,  as 
with  Monk  or  Wife  of  Bath,  the  tale  does  not  seem,  at 
first  glance,  particularly  characteristic  of  the  teller,  we 
must  regard  it  as  necessary  modification  or  amplification 
of  the  portrait  in  the  General  Prologue.     The  criticism, 

«»A,  731ff.,  3171ff.,  and  I,  1048ff.  The  final  leave-taking  of 
the  author  is  not  part  of  the  Drama,  but,  whatever  its  sincerity, 
must  be  considered  in  connection  with  the  present  phase  of  the 
discussion. 

"Thus  the  Squire  is  regarded  as  a  specialist  in  love;  ribaldry  is 
feared  from  the  Pardoner;  a  dull  sermon  from  the  Parson;  Chaucer's 
appearance  seems  to  promise  some  tale  of  mirth,  "some  deyntee 
thing;"  the  Host  feels  that  he  must  warn  the  Clerk  against  preach- 
ing and  the  "higli  style." 


;/ 


224  WALTER  MORRIS  HART, 

too,  is  characteristic  of  the  critics.  Like  the  gallery  in 
the  modern  theatre,  it  is  the  Ioav  characters  who  are  the 
most  outspoken,  in  jjraise  or  condemnation,  yet  the  quieter 
appreciation  of  the  gentles  is  not  forgotten.""  In  general, 
Chaucer  recognizes  the  important  principle  of  basing 
criticism  upon  psychological  effect.  Thus  the  Host 
demands  that  the  Clerk  shall  tell  a  tale  which  shall  be 
intelligible,  and  shall  neither  cause  his  audience  to  weep 
nor  put  them  to  sleep.  It  is  the  soporific  influence  to 
which  the  Host  objects  in  the  Monk's  tragedies,  while  the 
Knight  interrupts  them  rather  because  of  their  too  painful 
character.  All  the  Pilgrims  are  deeply  affected  by  the 
Prioress's  Tale. 

That  Chaucer  had  relatively  clear  conceptions  of  certain 
literary  types  is  revealed  by  the  Prologues.  "Tragedy" 
is  defined  for  us  by  the  Monk,  whose  instructive  remarks 
are  concluded  by  a  line  suggestive  of  the  modern  lecture- 
room:  '*Lo !  this  declaring  oughte  ynough  sufiise"  (B, 
3172).  Host  and  Knight  point  out  the  defects  of  this 
type.  The  Parson,  in  his  Prologue,  distingTiishes  between 
fiction  and  the  sermon, — chaff  and  wheat, — but  promises 
to  give  his  hearers  all  permissible  pleasure.  It  is,  how- 
ever, the  Pardoner  who  is  the  authority  on  the  technique 

"  Thus  the  Host  vociferously  takes  sides  with  virtue  in  his  com- 
ment on  the  Physicimi's  Tale  (C,  287ff.)>  expresses  violent  disgust  at 
Sir  Thopas  and  the  Monk's  tragedies,  strong  approval  of  the  Nun's 
Priest's  Tale  and  the  Shipman's  Tale,  and  bestows  perfimctory  praise 
on  the  effort  of  the  Man  of  Law.  The  Cook  expresses  intense  delight 
in  the  Reeve's  Tale.  The  Knight's  Tale  is  unanimously  declared  a 
noble  story,  but  especially  praised  by  "the  gentils  everichoon."  All 
are  solemn  when  the  Prioress  has  finislied.  The  Franklin  praises 
the  wit  and  eloqiience  of  the  Squire;  the  Knight  interrupts  the 
Monk.  Curiously  enough,  as  it  seems  to  us.  the  Miller's  Tale  is 
received  with  general  laughter  (A,  3855),  and  while  there  was  some 
difference  of  opinion,  only  the  Reeve  was  offended. 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  225 

of  the  sermon;  the  confession  of  this  conscious  artist  is, 
in  large  measure,  a  disquisition  on  methods  of  Persua- 
sion, wholly  with  reference  to  psychological  and  other 
effects,  including  sample  arguments,  and  reference  to  such 
minor  details  as  the  use  of  voice  and  gesture.  Most 
noteworthy  is  his  exposition  of  the  theory  of  exempla : 

"Than  telle  I  hem  eiisaniples  many  oon 
Of  olde  stories,  longe  tyme  agoon : 
For  Icwed  peple  loven  tales  olde; 
Swich  thinges  can  they  wel  reporte  and  holde"  (C,  435ff. ). 

Chaucer  clearly  distinguishes  between  such  tales  as  "sounen 
in-to  sinno"  and.  those  concerned  with  "gentillesse," 
morality  and  holiness.  He  describes  his  own  Meliheus  as 
a  "moral  tale  vertuous"  and  he  expressly  refers  to  the 
Miller  and  the  Reeve  and  "othere  many  mo"  as  telling 
tales  of  the  former  type.®^  He  makes  the  realist's  plea 
that  he  has  no  discretion,  is  under  compulsion  to  tell  all 
the  tales,  and  adjures  his  readers  not  to  "make  ernest  of 
game."  While  it  does  not  appear  that  any  of  the  Pilgrims 
were  offended  by  the  coarseness  of  the  Miller  s  Tale,  it  is 
clear  that  the  gentles  stood  in  some  fear  of  the  Pardoner's 
ribaldry.^®  In  obvious  contrast  to  tales  of  this  type  stand 
those  composed  by  the   "gentle   Britons." 

Chaucer  was  conscious  of  a  similar  contrast  in  style. 
He  apologizes  not  only  for  the  subject-matter  of  Miller 
and  Reeve  and  their  like,  but  for  their  manner,  their 
rough  and  coarse  speech,  as  well.  It  is,  as  we  have  seen, 
one  way  of  distinguishing  them  from  those  of  higher  rank 
and  greater  refinement,  in  the  conversations  of  the  Pro- 
logues.    The  Host,   moreover,   adjures  the   Clerk  to  tell 

•'A,  725ff.,  3171ff.,  I,  1084ff. 

"  In  this  connection  should  be  noted  the  Man  of  Law's  condemna- 
tion of  such  stories  as  those  of  Canacee  and  Appolonius   (B,  80). 


226  WALTER   MOEEIS   IIAET. 

bis  tale  plainly  and  intelligibly,  to  keep  bis  pedantic  and 
set  expressions,  bis  fine  pbrases,  and  bis  figures  of  speecb, 
until  such  time  as  be  may  write  tbe  bigb  style  appropriate 
for  kings.'^*'     Tbe  Man  of  Law  reveals  Chaucer's  interest 
in  matters  of  versification,    declaring  him   unskilled   in 
meters  and  rhyming.     Tbe  Host  finds  tbe  "drasty  ryming" 
of  Sir  T  ho  pas  to  be  "rym  dogerel ;"  and  the  Parson  holds 
but  a  low  opinion  of  rhyme  and  alliteration  in  general, 
and  associates  the  latter  with  the  North  and,  apparently, 
with    "moralitee    and    vertuous    matere."'^     Tbe    Friar 
displays   an  unexpected   sense  of  relative  emphasis   and 
proportion  when  be  laughs  at  tbe  Wife  of  Bath's  ''long 
preamble  of  a  tale."     More  in  character  is  the  Clerk's 
criticism  of  Petrarch's  impertinent  description  of  Pied- 
mont and  Saluzzo,  introductory  to  the  tale  of  Griselda. 
It  is  clear  that  Chaucer  had  thought  of  such  matters.     He 
was  alive,  too,  to  the  dangers  of  monotony,  for  it  is  partly 
on  this  ground  that  Knight  and  Host  condemn  tbe  Monk's 
tragedies,  and  that  tbe  Host  interrupts  Sir  Thopas.     The 
variety  of  tbe  Canterbury  Tales  is  thus  not  to  be  regarded 
as  tbe  result  of  their  history,  or  of  accident,  or  of  instinct. 
If  the  Prologues  reveal  Chaucer's  concern  with  questions 
of  literary  technique,  they  reveal  no  less  bis  surpassing 
interest  in  men  and  in  human  relations.     Nowhere  is  more 
manifest  his  humorous  tolerance,  bis  sympathetic  under- 
standing of  men  of  all  degrees  of  rank,  morality,  and  intel- 
ligence.    He  seems  to  know  the  peculiar  vices  incident  to 
every    occupation.      His    prevailing    interest,    however, 
seems  to  be  in  tbe  "war  of  the  sexes,"  and  especially  in 
the  "wo  that  is  in  mariage."     Whether  be  is  sincere  in 

'•Cf.  the  Franklin's  Prologue,  F,  716ff. 

"  I,  37ff.     It  is  easy  to  read  between  the  lines  here  a  reference  to 
Piers  Plowman. 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  227 

his  attitude,  basing  it,  like  the  Wife  of  Bath,  ou  experience 
rather  than  on  authorities,  or  whether,  like  Will  Honey- 
comb, he  merely  "shows  his  parts  by  raillery  on  marriage," 
he  is  clearly  disposed  to  take  the  cynical  view.  The 
longest  of  the  Prolognies,  that  of  the  Wife  of  Bath,  is  a 
disquisition  on  methods  of  making  husbands  unhappy  and 
obtaining  mastery  over  them.  We  women,  she  says,  desire 
what  is  forbidden  us  (D,  5l7ff.),  and 

"We  love  no  man  that  taketh  kepe  or  charge 
Wher  that  we  goon,  we  wol  ben  at  our  large  (D,  321  f.). 

The  Merchant,  married  but  two  months,  echoes  the  closing 
lines  of  Chaucer's  Envoy  to  the  Cleric's  Tale  to  the  effect 
that  "weping  and  wayling^  care,  and  other  sorwe"  (E, 
1213ff.)  are  the  common  lot  of  husbands.  And  the  Host 
adds  to  the  descriptions  of  his  wife,  already  noted,  an 
interesting  glimpse  of  his  relation  to  her,  recalling  that  of 
Simkin  to  his  wife,  in  the  Reeve's  Tale  (A,  3961f.)  ;  she 
will  persuade  him  to  kill  one  of  his  neighbors  some  day, 
he  says, 

"For   I   am   perilous   with   knyf   in   honde, 
Al  be  it  that  I  dar  nat  hir  withstonde, 
For  she  is  big  in  armes,  by  my  feith  (B,  3109). 

Characters  such  as  the  Miller,  the  Summoner,  the  Cook, 
the  Host,  and,  particularly,  the  Wife  of  Bath,  display  the 
power  of  ''lewed  folk"  to  "report  and  hold"  proverbial 
sayings.  Proverbs,  therefore,  are  of  frequent  occurrence 
in  the  Prologues,  and  most  of  them  express,  in  crisp,  sen- 
tentious fashion,  the  speakers'  cynical  views  of  women. 
These  utterances  are  not  all  Chaucer's  own,  and  it  is  not 
to  be  assumed  that  they  express  his  opinions.  But  it  is 
worthy  of  note  that  he  mentions  no  happy  marriage,  and 


228  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

,-^/  no  Pilgrim  comes  forward  to  extol  the  joys  of  matrimony 
or  the  virtues  of  his  wife.  Silence  about  such  matters 
was  doubtless  characteristic  of  the  gentles,  then  as  now. 
The  Prologiies,  moreover,  are  comic,  and  happy  marriages 
and  virtuous  women  have  no  gi-eat  value  as  sources  of 
comic  effect.  Still,  reference  to  them  could  have  been 
delicately  managed,  and  would  have  heightened  the  effect 
by  contrast.  In  spite,  then,  of  the  Miller's  declaration 
that  there  are  a  thousand  good  women  to  one  bad  one,  it 
is  difficult  to  believe  that  the  Chaucer  of  the  Prologues 
was  not  inclined  to  share  the  traditional  medieval  view 
of  the  sex.  That  he  did  share  this  view  there  is  excellent 
evidence  in  "The  Counseil  of  Chaucer  touching  Mariage, 
which  was  sent  to  Bukton."^^  Here  Chaucer  begs  his 
friend  to  read  the  Wife  of  Bath  concerning  this  matter, 
repeats  her  phrase,  "the  wo  that  is  in  mariage,"  and  echoes 
the  Merchant's  view  of  the  married  state.  He  advises 
Bukton  to  take  a  wife,  lest  he  do  worse ;  but  he  will 
surely  have  to  endure  much  sorrow  and  be  her  slave. 

A  third  interest  of  Chaucer's,  that  in  astronomy, 
appears,  finally,  in  the  Prologues.  The  method  of  calcu- 
lating the  time  of  day  is  given  in  the  Introduction  to  the 
Man  of  Law's  Prologue,  and  again  in  the  Parson  s  Pro- 
logue. In  this  connection  it  is  convenient  to  mention  the 
references  to  astrology  made  by  the  Wife  of  Bath,  who 
sinned,  she  says,  by  virtue  of  her  constellation  (D,  614ff\), 
and  accounts  for  the  mutual  hatred  of  clerks  and  women  on 
the  ground  of  the  natural  hostility  of  the  children  of 
Mercury  and  the  children  of  Venus  (D,  697ff.).  These 
passages  are  doubtless  purely  dramatic,  and  with  the  irony 
implied  in  them  may  be  connected  Chaucer's  condemnation 
of  alchemy,  in  the  Canon's  Yeoman's  Prologue  and  Tale, 
"  Skeat,  The  Works  of  Chaucer,  I,  398. 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  229 

and  the  Pardoner's  exposure  of  his  methods  of  gulling  his 
victims. 

Turning  now  from  the  framework  to  the  tales  which  it 
encloses,  we  find  that  they  are,  finished  and  unfinislied, 
twenty-four  in  number.  Of  these,  twelve  are  serious  and 
twelve  are  comic.  Of  the  serious  tales,  two  are  in  prose 
and  five  in  stanzas.  Of  the  remaining  five,  one,  the 
Knight's  Tale,  is  an  older  tale  remodeled,  and  another,  the 
Squire's  Tale,  is  unfinished.  This  leaves  three  finished 
tales  in  the  meter  of  the  framework,  written,  in  all  proba- 
bility, for  the  places  which  they  now  occupy,  namely, 
the  Physician's,  the  Wife's,  and  the  Franklin's. 

Of  the  comic  tales,"*'^  one,  the  Cook's,  is  unfinished ;  one, 
Sir  Thopas,  is  in  stanzaic  form,  though  only  for  purposes 
of  parody.'''^  The  remaining  ten  are  all  finished  and  all 
in  the  meter  of  the  framework.  All  twelve  were  evidently 
conceived  and  written  as  Canterbury  tales.  They  are 
closely  connected  with  the  Drama  of  the  Pilgrimage. 
Five  of  them, — Miller's,  Reeve's,  Friar's,  Summoner's, 
Canon's  Yeoman's, — spring  from  the  quarrels  of  the  nar- 
rators, and  comic  characters  in  them  are  counterparts  of 
some  of  the  Pilgrims."^"     The  Miller  insists  upon  telling 

"  Classed  as  comic  are  Sir  Thopas,  and  tlie  tales  of  Nun's  Priest, 
Friar,  Merchant,  Cook,  Shipnian,  Miller,  ]\Iaunciple,  Reeve,  Siim- 
moner,  Canon's  Yeoman,  and  Pardoner.  There  may  be  some  question 
as  to  whether  the  Pardoner's  Tale  should  be  placed  in  this  group. 
Certainly  it  has  serious  elements.  But  the  condition  and  character 
of  the  Pardoner,  his  Prologue,  the  conversation  following  the  tale, 
and  the  fact  that  schwank  and  fabliau  did  not  hesitate  to  find  in 
death  a  source  of  comic  effect,  justify  the  present  classification. 
The  story  is  grim  comedy,  indeed,  but  still  comedy. 

''*  It  is  hardly  conceivable  that  Chaucer  ever  intended  to  add 
anything  to  Sir  Thopas  or  to  the  Monk's  Tale. 

"^  These  are  Miller,  Reeve  (Carpenter),  Friar,  Summoner,  and 
Canon.  There  is  no  Palamon  or  Arcite,  no  Constance  or  Griselda 
among  the  Pilgrims. 


230  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

his  tale  because  he  is  drunk;  the  Shipman,  upon  telling 
his,  in  order  to  save  the  company  from  a  dull  sermon ;  and 
the  Maunciple  volunteers  to  take  the  place  of  the  drunken 
Cook.  Taken  all  together,  the  comic  tales  make  a  very 
different  impression  from  the  serious  ones,  an  impression 
of  gTeater  uniformity,'^  and  one  practically  identical, 
speaking  roughly  and  generally,  with  that  produced  by  the 
Drama  of  the  Pilgrimage.  To  sum  up  the  characteristics 
of  that  Drama  is,  therefore,  to  sum  up  the  characteristics 
of  the  comic  tales  as  well.  The  Drama,  we  have  just 
seen,  is  a  series  of  comic  incidents,  realistic  in  relations 
of  time,  place,  and  persons.  The  latter  are,  for  the  most 
part,  ''low"  and  comic.  These,  at  least,  are  more  com- 
pletely revealed  than  their  betters,  speak  more  frequently, 
and  dominate  the  whole.  Their  characters  are  mainly 
suggested  by  objective  and  dramatic  methods,  rarely 
directly  described.  Chaucer's  attitude  toward  them  is 
detached  and  impersonal.  He  is  interested  in  their 
thouglits  and  emotions,  but  here  again  there  is  little  direct 
» — ^  description,  the  method  is  almost  wholly  dramatic.  These 
emotions  are  mainly  the  results  of  the  conflicts  of  the 
characters,  and  in  these  conflicts  are  the  elements  of  per- 
sonal hatred  and  professional  jealousy  in  varying  degTees. 
The  drama  consists  largely  of  a  series  of  these  violent 
diiferences  of  opinion,  relieved  from  monotony  by  com- 
pulsory changes  of  the  Host's  plans,  and  by  vivid  bits  of 
action.     It  is  carried  on  mainly  by  dialogue,  vigorous  and 

"The  serious  tales  represent  a  variety  of  literary  types, — 
romance,  lay,  fairy  tale,  saint's  legend,  tragedy,  novella,  and  classical 
tale.  The  use  of  prose  and  stanzas  has  been  noted.  The  comic 
tales,  on  the  contrary,  maj'  all  be  fairly  classed  as  fabliaux,  except 
the  beast-epic  of  the  Nun's  Priest,  which  dilfers  very  little  from  the 
fabliau  manner,  and  NfV  Thopas,  which  is,  like  the  Old  French 
fabliau  Du  Mantel  Mauiaillc,  a  parody. 


THE   FRANKLIN  S   TALE.  231 

realistic,  indicative  of  character  and  emotion,  seldom 
taking  the  form  of  long  monologues,  and  frequently  taking 
that  of  group  conversation. 

While  they  are  essentially  dramatic  and  largely  imper- 
sonal, the  Prologues  still  reveal  much  concerning  Chaucer's 
tendencies  and  interests.  They  reveal  the  fact  that  he  was 
a  conscious  artist  in  literature,  able  to  calculate  the  effects 
which  he  desired  to  produce,  aware  of  the  existence  of 
certain  literary  types,  interested  in  questions  of  technique, 
style,  and  meter.  They  reveal,  too,  his  interest  in  hiiman 
relations,  particularly  in  marriage,  and  a  certain  cynical 
tendency  in  regard  to  women.  And  they  reveal,  finally, 
his  interest  in  astronomy,  and  contain  perhaps  an  ironical 
condemnation  of  astrology,  and  certainly  a  condemnation 
of  the  deceitful  use  of  the  pseudo-supernatural  by 
alchemist  and  pardoner. 

These  characteristics  are  to  be  found  in  one  or  more, — 
most  of  them,  indeed,  in  all, — of  the  comic  tales.  They 
are  to  be  found  also,  whether  faintly  foreshadowed  or 
clearly  developed,  in  the  Old  French  fabliaux,  so  that  we 
may  say  with  a  fair  degree  of  certainty'^ ^  that  in  the 
technique  of  the  Drama  of  the  Pilgrimage  and  of  the 
comic  tales  Chaucer  was  writing  under  fabliau  influence. 
While  the  serious  tales  amount  to  12,677  lines,  and  the 
whole  framework  and  comic  tales  together  only  to  9,411 
lines,  it  is  clear  that  the  latter  group  represents  the 
Chaucer  of  the  Canterhury  Tales,  for  every  part  of  it  was 
composed   especially  for  that  purpose,   in  the  style   and 

"The  general  influence  of  the  fabliaux  upon  Chaucer's  work  is 
of  great  importance  and  should  be  studied.  Evidence  will  he  in  the 
form,  not  of  parallel  passages  and  borrowings  of  stories,  but  of 
general  similarity  of  technique.  The  present  writer's  article  on  the 
Reeve's  Tale  {M.  L.  A.,  XXIII,  Iff.)   is  an  attempt  in  this  direction. 


232  WALTER  MORRIS  HART. 

meter'^^  and  general  tone  peculiar  to  it.  It  indicates  that 
the  prevailing  manner  and  point  of  view  of  Chaucer's  work 
at  this  time  were  the  manner  and  point  of  view  of  the 
fabliaux,  and  it  leads  us  to  expect  that  when  he  came  to 
write  stories  of  other  types  these  would  inevitably  be  con- 
taminated ;  that  classical  story,  Celtic  fairy  tale,  or  Breton 
lay,  would  have  some  fabliau  characteristics.  Of  the 
finished  serious  tales,  written,  in  heroic  couplets,  for  the 
place  which  they  now  occupy,  the  classical  story,  the 
Physician  s  Tale,  exhibits  but  few  of  these  character- 
istics;"^ the  Celtic  fairy  story,  the  Wife  of  Bath's  Tale, 
exhibits  more  of  them ;  and  the  Breton  lay,  the  Franklins 
Tale,  exhibits  most  of  all.  It  has  the  same  consciousness 
of  the  audience,  the  power  of  calculating  effects,  inherited 
from  schwank  and  fabliau ;  the  same  dramatic  quality 
and  technique;  the  same  use  of  place-names  with  little 
visualization;  the  same  passing  references  to  time  and 
season.  In  both  the  time  is  the  present  or  an  immediate 
past,  without  glamor  or  mystery.  There  is  the  same 
interest  in  character,  love  of  contrasts  (though  this  is  more 
subtle  in  the  Franklins  Tale),  and  preference  for  the 
dramatic  method  of  suggesting  character  and  emotion.  The 
tendency  to  regard  character  with  broad  tolerance  and  from 
the  comic  point  of  view  is  present  in  the  Franklin's  atti- 
tude toward  Aurelius.  There  is  the  same  sustained 
interest  in  mental  states;  and  something  of  the  same  con- 

'"  With  the  trifling  exceptions  of  Sir  Thopas,  which  necessarily 
makes  use  of  the  meter  of  the  genre  which  it  parodies,  and  of  its 
prologue,  which  continues  for  three  stanzas  the  meter  of  the 
Prioress's  Tale. 

"  The  source  of  the  Physician's  Tale  is  the  Roman  de  la  Rose,  and 
this,  in  a  general  division  of  medieval  literature,  is  to  be  classed 
with  the  fabliaux.  Bedier  points  out  common  characteristics.  {Les 
FaUiaux,  pp.  362,  371.) 


THE   franklin's   TALE.  233 

trast  between  the  free  expression  of  emotion  of  the  rela- 
tively ''low"  and  the  restraint  of  the  relatively  ''high"  in 
character,  in  the  contrast  between  Aurelius  and  Arveragus. 
The  question  proposed  at  the  close  suggests  the  old 
"debates,"  as  the  quarrels  do  in  the  Drama  of  the  Pil- 
grimage ;  and  there  is  something  of  the  same  conflict  of 
characters,  not  as  individuals,  but  as  representatives  of 
classes  or  professions,  in  the  emulation  of  knight,  squire, 
and  clerk.  There  is  the  same  literary  self-consciousness 
and  critical  power,  and  interest  in  matters  of  style  and 
technique.  There  is  the  same  interest  in  marital  relations « 
and  the  same  cynical  tendency.  The  condemnation  of 
astrology,  and  the  explanation  of  character  and  conduct  by 
planetary  influence,  connect  the  Franklifis  'Tale  with  the 
Wife  of  Bath's  Prologue.  The  use  of  a  pseudo-super- 
natural trick  to  gull  the  credulous  connects  it  with  the 
Pardoner's  Prologue,  the  Miller's  Tale,  and  the  Canon's 
Yeoman's  Tale,  as  well  as  with  the  traditions  of  schwank 
and  fabliau.  Like  the  comic  tales,  the  Franklin's  Tale 
is  closely  connected  with  the  framework.  It  springs,  if 
not  from  the  quarrel,  at  least  from  the  good-natured 
rivalry,  of  Franlvlin  and  Squire.  The  Franklin  is  con- 
scious throughout  of  the  conditions  under  which  he  is 
speaking.  Two  of  his  characters,  knight  and  squire,  are 
more  or  less  accurate  portraits  of  Canterbury  Pilgrims. 
There  are,  of  course,  striking  differences  between  the 
Franklin's  Tale  and  the  Drama  of  the  Pilgrimage, — its 
moral  purpose  and  serious  nature,  its  preference  for  "high" 
rather  than  "low,"  serious  rather  than  comic,  characters. 
It  is  less  vivid,  less  concrete  and  real.  Its  idealization  of 
character  it  may  well  owe  to  the  Breton  lay.  Its  lack  of 
vividness  and  concreteness  may  perhaps  be  regard*^*!  as 
the  result  of  the  apologue  theme.     And  this  remains  to  be 


234  WALTER   MOERIS   IIAKT. 

accounted  for.  Desire  to  illustrate  and  enforce  a  moral 
concept  is  certainly  not  a  significant  part  of  the  purpose 
of  the  Canterbury  Drama  or  of  the  comic  tales.  Yet  the 
stories  told  bv  Nun's  Priest,  Pardoner,  and  Canon's  Yeo- 
man,  together  with  Chaucer's  interest  in  the  general  ques- 
tion of  marital  relations,  are  sufficient  perhaps  to  account 
for  his  moralization  of  a  Breton  lay.  Even  the  Old 
French  fabliaux  are  sometimes,  by  exception,  moral  in 
intention,^"  witness  the  Housse  Partie,  Bourse  Pleine  de 
Sens,  and  FoUe  Largesse.  Doubtless  Chaucer  was 
familiar,  if  not  with  these,  at  least  with  fabliaux  of  this 
type,  and  such  familiarity  may  be  added  to  the  forces 
which  would  lead  a  fabliau  writer  to  compose  a  moral  tale. 
Furthermore,  it  is  possible  to  account  for  part  at  least  of 
the  curiously  symmetrical  structure  of  the  Franklin's  Tale 
on  the  basis  of  an  influence  which  relates  it  closely  to 
the  most  important  of  the  Canterbury  Prologues.  It  is 
exceedingly  interesting  to  note  that  Dorigen  borrows  the 
exempla  of  her  complaint  from  the  favorite  book  of  the 
Wife  of  Bath's  fifth  husband,  from  the  treatise  of  Jerome 
against  Jovinian.^^ 

So  far  as  manner,  point  of  view,  general  interests  and 
tendencies  are  concerned,  Chaucer  seems  to  owe  nothing  to 
Boccaccio,  either  to  the  Decameron  or  to  the  Filocolo. 
Whatever  the  provenience  of  the  story,  the  technique  of 
the  FranMins  Tale  has  every  appearance  of  being  simply 
the  result  of  a  translation  of  a  Breton  lay,  or  an  imitation 
of  the  Breton  lay,  by  a  great  poet  who  happened  to  be 
writing  at  the  time  mainly  in  the  manner  of  the  fabliaux. 
To  say  this  is  by  no  means  to  deny  the  originality  of  the 
great  poet;  whatever  he  may  liavc  learned  from  his 
predecessors,  selection,  recombinations,  improvements  of 
every  sort  were  his  own;  the  main  source  of  Chaucer's 
technique  was  Chaucer  himself. 


*"  Cf.  Bedier,  Les  Fabliaux,  p.  34. 
"Cf.  F,  1307ff.  and  D,  71  Iff. 


IPOMEDON, 
AN  ILLUSTEATIOIsT  OF  ROMANCE  ORIGIN. 


By  Charles  Heney  Carter,  Ph.D. 


IPOMEDON,  AlsT  ILLUSTRATIOlSr  OF  ROMANCE 

OEIGIK 

About  the  year  1187/  Hugh  of  Rutland,  living  at  a 
little  place  named  Credenhill,  near  Hereford,  on  the  Welsh 
border,  launched  a  three-decker  metrical  romance,  written 
in  good  French  and  entitled  Ipomedon.^  Hugh  was  prob- 
ably a  friend  of  Walter  Map,  for  they  lived  near  each 
other  and  Hugh  mentions  Map  familiarly,  if  not  jocosely : 

"Sul  lie  sai  pas  de  mentir  I'art, — 
Walter  Map  reset  ben  sa  part." 

Other  famous  contemporaries,  somewhat  older  than  Hugh, 
were  Marie  de  France  and  Chrestien  de  Troyes.  Even 
when  compared  with  the  work  of  the  notable  Chrestien, 
Hugh's  performance   is  not   insignificant.     Ipomedon  is 

^  Ward,  in  his  ^'Catalogue  of  Romances  in  British  Museum,"  Vol. 
1,  p.  728if.,  shows  by  internal  evidence  that  both  Ipomedon  and 
Prothesilaus,  the  other  extant  romance  by  Hugh,  nuist  have  been 
written  between  1174  and  1190-1.  Neither  Ward  nor  any  other 
investigator,  however,  has  cited  the  evidence  of  the  following  passage 
(Ip.  1.  8937if.)  : 

Si    fist    vms    reis    gvialeis    jardis, 

Jo   quit,   k'il   I'apelerent  Ris; 

II  fut  mut  larges  d'Engleterre, 

A  ses  hirdnians  parti  la  terre, 

E  Herefort  e  Glovecestre, 

Salopesbure  e  Wircestre; 

Mas  il  en  lava  ben  ses  mains. 

II  e  li  son  ourent  li  meins, 

Kar  il  fust  vencnz  e  laidiz, 

Vilment  chacez  e  descumfiz. 
This  refers  without  doubt  to  Rhees  ap  Gryffyth,  fomentor  of  insur- 
rections in  Wales  from  1158  till  his  death  in  the  next  century.  A 
careful  examination  of  his  career  (Cf.  R.  W.  Eyton:  "Court,  House- 
hold and  Itinerary  of  King  Henry  II,  p.  SOfT.;  also,  Lyttleton's 
History  of  Henry  II,  Vol.  3,  p.  80  ff.)  shows  that  the  only  one  of 
his   forays   into   the   English    counties   which   fits   this   reference    by 

(237) 


238  CHARLES  HENRY  CARTER. 

composed  with  a  good  degree  of  leisurely  literary  skill ;  it 
has  humor,  a  lively  style,  a  lack  of  tedious  incident  uncon- 
nected with  the  main  plot,  and  a  good  climax.  Excellences 
of  style  were  lost  in  the  English  versions  of  Ipomedon^ 
produced  by  later  redactors. 

Aside  from  the  literary  value  of  Ipomedon,  a  study  of 
the  poem  makes  clear  certain  points  of  interest  in  regard 
to  romance  origins.  We  can  discover  this  twelfth  century 
poet  manufacturing  his  story  from  sources  at  hand  and 
from  his  own  invention.  AVe  can  show  that  one-half  the 
story  is  based  on  a  widespread  type  of  folk-tale,  a  type 
which  has  also  influenced  various  other  romances.  We 
can  show  what  are  j^robably  definite  borrowings  from  the 
work  of  the  j)oet's  immediate  predecessors.  We  can  there- 
fore secure  a  fair  idea  of  the  way  in  which  this  particular 
romancer  set  about  amusing  French-speaking  Englishmen, 
two  centuries  before  Chaucer  amused  their  English-speak- 
ing children. 

Hugh  took  place  in  1186.  Ultimate  authority  is  found,  in  the 
Peterborough  Chronicle  (De  THa  et  Gestis  Eenrici  II  et  Ricardi  I. 
Pub.  by  Hearne,  1735.  Vol.  II,  p.  457).  Under  date  of  1186  is 
found  the  following  passage:  "Interim,  rumor  ille  nefandus  venit  in 
Angliam  ad  aures  Regis,  qvii  misit  Eanulfum  de  Glanvil,  Justiciarium 
suum,  ad  Resum  filium  Griffin,  et  ad  ceteros  Wallorum  Regulos,  ad 
Pacera  faciendam  inter  eos  et  Herefordenses  et  Cestrenses  (qui  paulo 
ante  in  quondam  [sic]  Conflictu,  multos  Walensibus  interfecerant) — " 
Apparently,  therefore,  Hugh's  fellow  townsmen  in  1186  had  joined 
with  men  from  Chester  in  driving  back  this  Welsh  king.  Probably 
Rhees  had  been  boasting  of  the  way  in  which  he  would  divide  Eng- 
land among  his  followers:  this  would  agree  well  with  his  character. 
If  it  be  granted  as  probable  tliat  Hugh  was  referring  to  this  event, 
both  Ipomedon  and  Prothesilaus  must  have  been  composed  between 
the  years  1186  and  1190-1.  Ipomedon,  the  earlier  of  the  two 
romances,   is  therefore  dated,   with  probable   accuracy,    1187-8. 

^  Hue  de  Rotelande's  Ipomedon,  ein  franzosischer  Abenteuerroman 
des  12ten  Jahrhunderts.     KiJlbing  und   Koschwitz.     Breslau.     1889. 

'  Ipomedon,  in  drei  englischen  bearbeitung.  Kolbing.  Breslau. 
1889. 


IPOMEDON.  239 

The  plot  of  Ipomedon  falls  easily  into  two  main  themes : 
the  three  days'  tournament,  and  the  rescue  of  a  besieged 
lady  by  a  knight  who  plays  the  fool.  With  the  latter  is 
woven  the  theme  of  finding  a  lost  relative  by  means  of  a 
ring,  after  the  relatives  have  fought  each  other. 

I.     Resemblance  to  Folk-loee. 

The  first  of  these,  the  three  days'  tournament,  is  a 
theme  which  appears  in  certain  other  romances  and  also 
in  a  large  number  of  folk-tales  gathered  from  all  over 
Europe.  Ward  cited  in  this  connection  a  tale  named 
"Le  Petit  Berger/'  Xo.  43  of  Vol.  II  of  E.  Cosquin's 
edition  of  ''Contes  Populaires  de  Lorraine/''^  A  study 
of  the  folk-tale  group  to  which  this  belongs  reveals  points 
of  interest  in  regard  to  Ipomedon.  The  writer  has 
examined  many  of  these  folk-tales  as  found  in  collections^ 

*  Also  cited  by  Karl  Breul  in  connection  with  Sir  Goivther.  Cf. 
Sir  Ooivther,  eine  englische  romanze  aus  dem  XV  Jahrhundert. 
Oppeln,  1886. 

"Cosquin:  Contes  Populaires  de  Lorraine,  II,  Nos.  43,  55.  Luzel : 
Traditions  Orales  des  Bretons- Armoricaius,  p.  34.  Zingerle:  Tirols 
Yolksdichtungen,  etc.,  II,  pp.  90,  32G,  91,  198.  Wolf:  Dentsrhe 
Hausmarchen,  pp.  2G9,  356,  369.  Wolf:  Deutsche  Ilausniiirchen  ii. 
Sagen,  No.  2.  Grimm:  Kinder  u.  Eausmarchen,  No.  136.  JNIeier: 
Deutsche  Volksmdrchen  aus  Schwahen,  No.  1.  Schambach  u.  MUller: 
Niedersachsische  Sagen,  p.  278.  Karl  Miillenhof:  MUrchen  u.  Liedcr 
der  Eerzogtlmmer  Schlesmig,  Holstein  u.  Lauenherg,  p.  432.  Gaal : 
Mdhrchen  der  Magyaren,  p.  25.  Milenowsky:  Yolksnidrchen  aus 
Bohmen,  p.  147.  Karadzic:  Yolksmiirchen  der  Serhen,  p.  12. 
Scliiefner:  Aivarische  Texte,  No.  4.  Halm:  Griechisclie  u.  Alhan- 
esische  Mdrchen,  No.  26.  W'enzig:  Westslawischen  Mtirchenschatz, 
p.  1.  Dietrich:  Russische  VolksmUrchen,  No.  4.  Gonzenbach : 
Sicilianische  Marchen,  No.  26.  Ebert's  Jahrhuch,  etc.,  VIII,  p.  253. 
Comparetti:  (yunti  e  Racconti  del  popolo  italiano,  VI,  p.  93. 
Campbell:  Popular  Tales  of  the  West  Highlands,  I,  p.  72.  Curtin: 
Myths  and  Folk-lore  of  Ireland,  p.  157.  Larniinie:  West  Irish  Folk- 
tales and  Romances,  p.  196.  Others  are  cited  by  Ilartland:  Legend 
of  Pcrrr}!s.  TIT.  p.  7. 


240  CHARLES    HENRY   CARTER. 

made  by  students  of  folk-lore  about  the  middle  of  the 
nineteenth  century. 

These  tales  may  be  summarized  as  follows :  ( 1 )  The 
hero  is  either  someone  of  low  rank,  or  else  a  prince  in  the 
disguise  of  the  menial.  He  is  a  shepherd  boy  in  tales 
from  Lorraine,  Germany,  Italy,  Swabia,  Tyrol,  Brittany, 
and  Western  Russia ;  a  goat-herd  in  Tyrol ;  a  fowl-herd  in 
Schleswig-Holstein  and  the  Odenwald;  a  cattle-herd  in 
still  another  tale  from  the  Tyrol,  also  in  Scotland  and 
Ireland ;  a  swine-herd  in  Hungary ;  a  gardener  in  Spain ; 
a  prince  without  menial  position  in  Servia  and  Transyl- 
vania; a  prince  disguised  as  a  gardener  in  Germany;  a 
prince  in  disguise  in  Sicily ;  the  son  of  a  knight  in  disguise 
of  a  gardener  in  Russia,  etc.,  etc.  (2)  By  some  means, 
usually  magic,  he  gains  control  of  a  horse,  or  more  fre- 
quently of  three  horses.  He  may  slay  giants  or  other 
malevolent  beings  and  thus  gain  access  to  their  secret 
stables, — as  in  the  case  of  fifteen  tales  examined  by  the 
^vriter;  he  may,  however,  simply  find  the  mysterious 
castle  where  the  horses  are  (Odenwald)  ;  or  procure  them 
from  a  subterranean  vault  (Russia)  ;  or  from  a  magic 
nut  (Sicily)  ;  or  from  a  magic  tree  (Saxony)  ;  etc.,  etc. 
(3)  These  horses  are  of  various  colors,  and  with  them 
frequently  go  suits  of  armor  of  three  different  colors. 
The  horses  may  be:  white,  black,  and  brown  (Tyrol, 
Germany)  ;  white,  red,  and  black  (Servia,  Western 
Russia)  ;  black,  red,  and  white  (Odenwald,  Tyrol)  ;  copper, 
silver,  and  gold  (Schleswig-Holstein)  ;  etc.  In  several 
cases  the  color  of  the  horses  is  not  given,  and  in  more,  no 
color  is  given  to  the  armor.  In  one  instance,  dogs  are 
mentioned,  corresponding  to  the  three  horses  as  in  Ipome- 
don  (Schleswig-Holstein).  (4)  Having  now  got  posses- 
sion of  the  horses,  and  keeping  his  exploits  secret,  the  hero 


IPOMEDON.  241 

performs  a  thrice  repeated  feat  by  whicli  lie  wins  the  hand 
of  a  princess.  The  feat  may  be  winning  at  a  three  days' 
tournament  (four  tales,  with  two  others  where  the  feat 
resembles  a  tourney)  ;  it  may  be  winning  in  a  three  days' 
battle  against  the  foes  of  the  kingdom  (four  tales)  ;  it 
may  be  fights  with  dragons  (eight  tales)  ;  it  may  be  a 
race;  a  contest  in  riding  at  the  ring;  a  contest  in  riding 
at  golden  apples ;  in  catching  golden  apples  as  thrown  by 
the  princess;  in  jumping  a  horse  over  a  tower;  etc.,  etc. 

(5)  Before  this,  the  hero  may  have  won  the  friendship, 
or  even  the  love,  of  tlie  princess ;  in  some  cases  he  has 
married  her,  but  has  attained  no  honor.  In  one  case  (Lor- 
raine) she  urges  him  to  take  part  in  the  contest,  and  in 
another  (Sicily)  invites  him  to  be  present  as  a  spectator. 

(6)  At  the  end  of  each  day's  exploits,  the  hero  invariably 
escapes  unknown,  and  is  often  modestly  reluctant  about 
showing  himself  and  receiving  his  reward.  In  one  case 
(Sicily)  he,  like  Ipomedon,  expressly  declares  that  he  has 
no  interest  in  the  outcome  of  the  battle.  In  two  tales  the 
hero  is  regaled  in  the  evening  with  an  account  of  his 
own  exploit.  (Y)  In  several  tales  the  hero  is  wounded  on 
the  last  day,  either  in  the  fight  (Swabia,  Tyrol,  Russia), 
or  more  often  in  the  endeavor  of  the  onlookers  to  keep  him 
from  making  a  third  escape  unknown  (six  tales).  In 
one  case  (Sicily)  when  asked  about  the  wound,  he  answers, 
like  Ipomedon,  "Ich  liabe  mich  gestossen."  (8)  Now  fol- 
lows his  identification,  often  by  a  piece  of  weapon  left 
in  the  wound,  and  then  the  inevitable  marriage  with  the 
princess. 

For  the  sake  of  convenient  comparison,  let  us  put  side 
by  side  the  points  of  resemblance  between  Ipomedon,  the 
elaborate  romance,  and  this  variegated  group  of  folk-tales. 
i6 


242 


CIIAKLES   HENRY    CARTER. 


We  postulate  the  right  to  select  incidents  as  we  choose 
from  the  tales. 


Ipomedon. 

Ip.  hears  of  the  beauty  of  La 
Fiere,  goes  in  disguise  to  her 
court,  and  takes  service  with 
her. 

They  fall  in  love. 

After  a  reprimand,  Ip.  leaves 
court.  Her  barons  compel  La 
Fiere  to  choose  a  husband,  and 
she  decides  on  the  thi-ee  days' 
tournament  as  a  means  for 
making   choice. 


Ip.  brings  his  three  horses, 
white,  red,  and  black,  and  his 
three  suits  of  armor  of  the  same 
colors. 

He  wins  on  each  day  and  departs 
secretly,  keeping  his  identity 
unknown. 

After  each  day's  fight,  he  sends 
word  to  La  Fiere  that  he  cannot 
be  present  on  the  next  day,  thus 
leaving  her  in  continual  sus- 
pense. 

On  his  return  each  day,  Ip.  is 
laughed  to  scorn  by  the  court 
ladies. 

In  the  evening  Ip.  hears  Thoas 
narrate  the  incidents  of  the  day. 

Ip.  is  assisted  in  his  deception 
by  his  master,  Tholomeu,  wlio 
hunts  with  dogs  matching  the 
horses  in  color. 


Folk-tales. 
Prince     becomes     enamoured     of 
princess  through  seeing  her  por- 
trait and  goes  to  seek  her.     He 
disguises  himself. 

They  become  at  least  very 
friendly. 

Hero  slays  giants,  or  in  some 
other  way  gets  possession  of 
three  horses.  King  announces 
three  days'  tournament  for  hand 
of  his  daughter.  The  three  days' 
feat  is  more  frequently  some- 
thing other  than  a  tourney. 

Hero  uses  horses  colored  white, 
red,  and  black,  and  clotlies  or 
armor  of  the  same  color. 


He  wins  on  each  day  and  departs 
secretly,  keeping  his  identity 
unknown. 

Princess  each  day  implores  hero 
to  take  part;  he  says  he  will, 
but  apparently  does  not,  thus 
keeping  her  in  continual  sus- 
pense. 

Hero  is  laughed  at  as  he  returns 
on  his  decrepit  nag.   (Germany). 

In  the  evening  hero  hears  eye- 
witness tell   of  his  deeds. 

Hero  is  helped  by  dogs  distin- 
guished like  the  horses  by  cer- 
tain adornments. 


IPOMEDON.  243 

On  the  last  day  Ip.  is  wounded  On  last  day  hero  is  wounded  in 
in  the  fray.  conflict,  or  as  he  escapes. 

He  tries  to  keep  his  wound  He  tries  to  conceal  wound,  and 
secret,  and  when  he  cannot,  explain  it  away,  but  is  identified 
explains   it   away.  by  it  later. 

Ip.  ultimately  marries  La  Fiere.       Hero  marries  princess. 

These  resemblances  to  the  first  half  of  the  plot  of 
Ipomedon  are  so  close  and  so  pervasive  that  it  seems 
impossible  to  regard  them  as  accidental.  The  theme  is 
too  comiDlicated  to  have  arisen,  quite  independently,  once 
in  the  mind  of  Hngh,  or  some  literary  predecessor  of  his, 
and  again  among  the  folk  all  over  Europe.  To  be  sure, 
no  great  stress  can  be  laid  on  certain  isolated  resemblances ; 
for  instance,  the  mention  of  the  three  dogs  corresponding 
to  the  horses,  found  in  the  variant  from  Schleswig-Hol- 
stein,  very  doubtfully  shows  <5ccult  relation  to  the  dogs  in 
Ipomedon ;  this  is  an  idea  which  might  easily  have  been 
added  independently  in  England,  or  in  Schleswig-Hol- 
stein,  or  anywhere.  But  the  cumulative  resemblance  of 
Ipomedon  to  the  widespread  type  is  strong.  The  folk- 
tales usually  contain  magic,  and  the  romance  is  rational- 
ized ;  but  the  framework  is  practically  identical,  so  that, 
on  the  whole,  one  must  believe  the  romance  and  the  folk- 
tales historically  dependent. 

The  great  gap  of  seven  centuries  between  the  writing 
of  the  romance  and  the  writing  dovra  of  the  folk-tales, 
together  with  the  general  obscurity  resting  on  folk-tale 
origins,  might  lead  a  critic  to  hesitate  to  accept  the  folk-tale 
as  in  any  way  the  source  of  the  romance.  Foerster  and  his 
school  of  critics,  espousing  "Methode  streng  literar- 
historische,"  think  that  reasoning  from  folk-lore  is  unsafe. 
But  to  derive  the  folk-tales  from  the  literary  forms  of 
the  story  would  require  us  to  suppose  that  the  unlettered 


244  CHAllLES   IIEXKY    CARTER. 

folk  seized  upon  tlie  essentials  of  the  story  and  decked 
them  out  in  fairy-tale  paraphernalia — magic  castles,  talk- 
ing horses,  etc. — in  other  words,  reversed  the  usual  ten- 
dency in  early  literatures  to  go  from  the  simple  and  the 
supernatural  to  the  intricate  and  the  rational.  This 
supposition  is  not  tenable. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  romance  has  the  appearance  of 
being  a  complex  and  rationalized  development  of  a  primi- 
tive theme, — and  folk-tales  are  undoubtedly  old  enough  to 
be  the  ultimate  sources  of  twelfth  century  romance.  After 
the  investigations  of  Wilhelm  Grimm,  Emmanuel  Cosquin, 
Andrew  Lang,  and  others,  this  last  statement  will  hardly 
be  questioned.  Moreover,  a  wide  distribution  of  any  folk- 
tale, as  in  this  case,  is  a  good  indication  of  its  antiquity. 
It  seems  reasonable,  therefore,  to  suppose  that  the  first 
part  of  Ipomedon  is  dependent  in  some  way  upon  the 
folk-tale,  which  has  itself  lasted  um\Titten  among  the 
peasantry  of  Europe  till  modern  times. 

Here,  however,  should  be  made  a  reservation.  It  is 
impossible  to  believe  that  Hugh  (or  his  literary  prede- 
cessor, if  he  had  one)  could  have  derived  from  a  folk-tale 
the  tournament.  The  reason  is  that  in  1187  the  tourna- 
ment was  still  a  rather  recent  institution.*^  The  folk-tale 
represents  the  old  ideas  of  the  people,  a  ad  therefore  the 
tournament  in  Ipomedon  is  probabl}'  a  literary  substitu- 
tion for  some  primitive  form  of  the  feat,  such  as  the  fight 
with  the  dragon,  found  in  eight  of  the  folk-tales.  Much 
later,   after  the  tournament  became   a   common-place   in 

•Freeman:  Eistory  of  the  Norman  Conquest,  V,  p.  488,  says,  "The 
tournament  appears  among  us  as  a  novelty  of  the  twelfth  century." 
A.  P.  Budik:  Vrsprung  des  Turniers:  quotes  Wm.  of  Newburgh,  Bk. 
V,  ch.  4  of  Eistoria  Anglicnna,  when  he  says  that  in  1194  people 
in  England  began  to  use  warlike  practices  commonly  called  tourneys. 


IPOMEDON.  245 

Europe,  it  naturally  stole  into  a  few  variants  of  the  oral 
folk-tale,  independently  of  the  romances.  It  is  not  a 
common  feature  of  folk-lore. 

The  exact  history  showing  hoiu  the  romance  is  dependent 
on  the  folk-tale  is  probably  not  to  be  determined.  One 
or  several  literary  adaptations  may  have  intervened 
between  the  simple,  magic  story,  told  perhaps  by  some- 
body's nurse,  and  Hugh's  long  poem.  In  his  introduction 
Hugh  professes  a  Latin  source  for  his  story,  but  this 
profession,  as  "we  may  see  more  clearly  later,  is  very 
doubtfully  true. 

II.     The  Three  Days'  Feat  ix  Other  Romances. 

Meanwhile,  if  w^e  have  established  the  ultimate 
dependence  on  folk-lore  of  this  part  of  Ipomedon,  let 
us  turn  to  glance  at  various  other  literary  versions  of 
the  three  days'  feat.  Will  they  help  in  tracing  the  literary 
history  of  this  theme  ? 

These  other  versions"  are  found  (1)  in  Sir  Goivthcr  and 
in  Robert  the  Devil;  (2)  in  Lanzelet,  and  in  three  other 
rather  unimportant  passages  where  Lancelot  is  the  hero; 
(3)  in  Cliges;  (4)  in  Partonopeus;  (5)  in  Roswall  and 
Lillian;  and  (6)  in  Bicliard  Coeur  de  Lion.  Let  ns  con- 
sider them  in  order. 

(1)  Sir  Oowther  and  the  various  versions  of  the  widely 
distributed  Robert  the  Devil  story  are  very  similar  to  each 
other  in  those  points  where  they  resemble  Ipomedon,  and 

'Ward  first  called  attention  to  the  resemblance  between  Ipomedon 
and  one  incident  in  the  Prose  Lancelot.  The  credit  for  first  citing 
Lanzelet,  a  passage  in  the  Dutch  Lwncelot,  and  Chrestien's  Cliges  in 
connection  with  Ipomedon  is  due  to  Miss  Jessie  L.  Weston  in  her 
book  "The  Three  Days'  Tournament,"  London,  1902.  Kolbing  men- 
tions Oowther  and  Partonopeus.  Lengert  (Eng.  Stud.  XVI,  321flF., 
and  XVII,  341f.),  and  Child  (Eng.  and  Scot.  Ballads  No.  271) 
mention  Ipomedon  in  connection  with  Richard  and  with  Rostoall. 


246  CHARLES    HENRY    CARTER. 

it  is  therefore  convenient  to  consider  them  together. 
These  resemblances  may  be  briefly  summarized  as  follows : 
The  hero,  in  disguise  of  a  menial,  is  at  the  court  where 
the  hand  of  a  princess  is  at  stake.  We  are  not  told  that 
he  loves  her,  but  we  feel  sure  that  she  loves  him.  On  three 
successive  days  he  is  provided  (here  miraculously)  with 
three  horses.  In  Gowther^  the  horses  are  colored  like 
Ipomedon's.  The  hero  escapes  unknown  on  each  occa- 
sion,— unknoAvn  except  to  the  dumb  daughter.  (La  Fiere 
in  I-pomedon  knew"  each  evening  who  the  hero  was.)  The 
hero  appears  like  a  fool  at  the  suppers  in  the  evening. 
He  is  wounded  on  the  last  day.  To  be  sure,  the  thrice 
repeated  contest  is  a  battle,  not  a  tournament. 

BreuP  has  industriously  examined  the  Goivther-Rohert 
story,  but  does  not  mention  Ipomedon  or  any  other  literary 
version.  Instead,  he  seeks  the  basis  of  the  story  in  folk- 
lore, and,  as  a  basis  for  that  part  which  concerns  Ipomedon, 
finds  the  same  group  of  folk-tales  which  ^ve  have  been 
considering.  He  cites  three  examples  and  then  constructs 
an  ideal  marchen  with  which  to  make  his  comparison. 
His  conclusion  is  that  the  Gowther-Bohert  legend  is  the 
clerical  working  over  of  a  widespread  folk-tale  of  the 
youthful  knight  voluntarily  lowering  his  social  standing 
and  finally  rewarded  by  the  hand  of  the  princess, — the 
story  of  the  male  Cinderella.  This  working  over  belongs 
to  the  twelfth  century,  perhaps  earlier,  and  becomes  essen- 
tially the  tale  of  a  sinner  and  his  repentance.^^ 

'  Sir  Goivther  may  be  more  than  a  mere  retelling  of  the  Robert 
story,  as  Breiil  would  have  it.  In  view  of  such  tales  as  the  Breton 
Lai/  of  Tydorel,  and  Sir  Degore,  Dr.  Schofield  thinks  it  may  repre- 
sent the  combination  of  such  a  story  with  that  of  Robert. 

'Sir  Qoivther,  eine  englische  romanze  aus  dem  XV  Jahrhtindert. 

'"Reviewers  of  Bi-eul's  book  find  no  serious  error  in  his  derivation 
of  the  story  from  folk-lore.  Cf.  Romania,  XV,  160.  Englische 
Studien,  XII,  78-83. 


IPOMEDON.  247 

Sir  Gowtlier  dates  from  the  fifteenth  century,  and  the 
earliest  known  version  of  Robert  is  found  in  the  Latin  of 
Etienne  de  Bourbon,  about  1250.  (Printed  by  Breul, 
p,  208.)  Etiemie  says  he  heard  the  story  from  two 
brothers  who  said  they  had  read  it.  Is  it  possible  that  the 
Robert  story  was  directly  influenced  by  Ipomedon  (1187)  ? 
No.  The  three  days'  tournament  as  we  saw,  is  probably  a 
literary  injection  as  it  appears  in  the  romance ;  and  both 
Robert  and  Gowtlier  keep  the  old  (  ?)  three  daj's'  battle. 
The  three  colors  do  not  appear  in  Robert,  and  in  Gowtlier 
they  are  not  in  the  same  order.  None  of  the  complications 
exhibited  in  Ipomedon, — the  hunting,  the  dogs,  the  two 
women  open  to  the  hero's  love,  and  so  forth,  appear  in  the 
other  stories,  which  in  nearly  all  points  keep  closer  to 
the  simplicity  of  the  folk-tales,  and  retain  some  of  the 
magic  elements. 

It  is  equally  impossible  to  suppose  that  Ipomedon 
is  based  directly  on  the  Robert  tradition,  which  Breul 
thinks  may  have  existed  in  the  twelfth  century.  For 
there  is  nothing  of  the  clerical  element  in  Ipomedon, — 
none  of  the  devils,  popes,  miracles  found  in  Gowtlier- 
Robert.  It  seems  probable,  therefore,  that  the  Robert  and 
the  Ipomedon  are  independently  based  on  the  same  general 
group  of  folk-tale.  The  "clerical  elaborator"  of  Breul's 
theory  would  find  it  easy  to  account  for  the  appearance 
of  the  horses  and  armor  as  the  answer  to  prayer;  it  was 
not  necessary  to  follow  the  folk-tale  in  its  slaying  of 
dragons,  finding  of  subterranean  castles,  or  what  not.  To 
bring  in  the  Saracen  king  that  he  might  be  soundly  drubbed 
by  the  Christians  was  natural  to  him.  Also,  to  have  the 
princess  dumb  offered  a  good  chance  for  a  miracle.  Hugh, 
or  his   predecessor,   on   the  other   hand,   though   keeping 


248  CHAELES   HENRY    CARTER. 

fairly   close    to   the   folk-tale   framework,    has    developed 
the  theme  romantically. 

(2)  We  turn  now  to  the  three  days'  tournament  theme  as 
found  in  various  stories  where  Lancelot  is  the  hero.  The 
story  most  to  our  purpose  is  the  Lanzelet  of  Ulrich  von 
Zatzikhoven.  Here  the  tournament  episode  is  simply  one 
of  a  series  of  detached  incidents  in  this  biographical 
romance.  Lanzelet  is  said  by  its  author  to  be  the  transla- 
tion of  a  romance  in  French  taken  from  England  by 
Hugh  de  Morville.  This  was  in  1194,  The  story  runs 
as  follows :  One  day  Lanzelet  learns  of  a  tournament  at 
which  all  good  knights  should  be  present.  Gawain,  with 
whom  Lanzelet  has  been  having  a  friendly  bout  at  arms, 
urges  his  young  opponent  to  accompany  him  to  the  tourna- 
ment; but  the  young  hero  says  he  may  not  do  so.  After 
entreaty,  Gawain  sees  that  he  cannot  prevail,  and  therefore 
departs  alone.  Later  Lanzelet  decides  to  go  with  Ada, 
his  amie,  and  her  brother  Diebalt.  Bedecked  in  green,  he 
takes  his  place.  He  overthrows  the  boaster  Keiin  (Kay) 
and  others.  That  he  may  not  be  recognized  on  the  follow- 
ing day,  he  bids  Diebalt  prepare  for  him  a  white  shield, 
banner,  and  coat  of  mail.  He  wins  again  and  departs 
unfollowed  to  his  inn.  On  the  third  day  he  comes  in  red 
and  joins  battle  with  Gawain.  King  Lot,  fearing  for 
his  favorite  knight,  rides  at  the  unknown  knight.  With 
that,  Lanzelet  turns  his  attention  to  King  Lot,  who,  though 
soon  aided  by  his  retainers,  is  presently  captured.  At  the 
end  of  the  day  Arthur  and  Gawain  ride  down  to  the 
lodging  of  the  hero,  who  will  not  give  his  name,  say  the 
proper  things,  and  invite  him  to  come  to  Arthur's  court. 
This,  however,  Lanzelet  refuses  to  do,  and  rides  off  for 
another  adventure. 

This  account  is  nearer  to  Ipomedon  and  to  the  folk-tale 


IPOMEDON.  249 

type  than  any  of  the  other  accounts  where  this  adventure 
is  ascribed  to  Lancelot,^^  That  the  theme,  however, 
though  in  modified  forms,  turns  up  three  times  again  with 
reference  to  him,  indicates  the  strength  of  this  tradition. 
In  spite  of  obvious  differences  between  Ipomedon  and 
Lanzelet — dissimilar  colors,  no  princess  concerned,  the 
sketchiness  of  Lanzelet  and  the  elaboration  of  Ipomedon — 
there  are  yet  certain  strong  points  of  resemblance.  Miss 
Weston  pointed  out  the  likeness  between  the  overthrow  of 
Keiin  in  Lanzelet  to  that  of  Caeminius  in  Ipomedon. 
She  might  have  mentioned  even  stronger  similarities: 
(1)  The  hero  is  urged  by  the  chief  knight,  his  friend,  to 
take  part  in  the  tourney,  but  refuses,  only  to  go  later  in 
disguise.  (2)  The  king  in  person  rides  to  the  assistance 
of  this  chief  knight  when  in  the  tourney  the  latter  is 
too  sorely  assailed  by  the  unknown  hero,  and  is  in  turn 
vigorously  assaulted.      (3)  Ade  in  Lanzelet  is  similar  to 

"The  Dutch  Lancelot,  cited  by  Miss  Weston,  {Roman  van  Lancelot, 
ed.  W.  J.  A.  Jonckbloet)  gives  a  long-winded  and  dull  account 
not  strikingly  similar  to  the  other  versions.  Ward  cites  a  passage 
in  the  Prose  Lancelot  (Les  Romans  de  La  Table  Ronde,  ed.  P.  Paris, 
"Vol.  3),  dating  from  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century.  Young 
Lancelot  fights  in  white,  red,  and  black.  The  fight,  however,  is  not 
a  tournament,  and  a  year  inter\'enes  between  the  second  and  third 
appearances. 

Another  account,  unnoticed  hitherto,  can  also  be  found  in  the 
Prose  Lancelot  (See  Sommer's  notes  on  Bk.  XVIII  of  his  edition  of 
Malory's  Morte  Darthur.  On  this  part  of  Malory,  Tennyson  bases 
the  incidents  of  Lancelot  and  Elaine.)  Lancelot  goes  in  disguise 
to  the  tournament  to  test  his  strength.  His  armor  is  red.  He 
fights  unknown,  and  casts  down  all.  His  kinsmen,  thinking  a 
stranger  is  gaining  fame  due  to  Lancelot  alone,  run  at  him  in  a 
body,  and  Sir  Bors  wounds  him  in  the  thigh.  He  wins,  however, 
and  departs  unknown,  to  be  nursed  by  Elaine  and  the  hermit.  He 
had  planned  to  appear  in  a  second  tourney  in  white,  but  his  wound, 
bursting  forth  afresh,  detains  him.  A  third  tourney  is  decreed, 
but  again  an  accident  prevents  him  from  going. 


250  CHARLES   HENRY   CARTER. 

a  ratlier  mysterious  niece  of  Ipomedon,  whom  he  leaves 
with  Meleager's  queen  until  he  departs  after  the  tourna- 
ment; and  (4)  Diebalt,  who  aids  Lanzelet  in  the  tourna- 
ment by  carrying  spears  and  taking  charge  of  captured 
horses,  is  much  like  Jason,  who  in  Ipomedon  performs 
similar  services  for  the  hero. 

These  resemblances  occur  in  no  other  version  of  the 
story,  either  literary  or  popular.  They  render  plausible 
the  theory  that  Hugh  may  have  known  the  French  original 
of  Lanzelet  extant  in  England  some  time  before  1194,  or 
some  closely  allied  version.  That  he  did  not  build  up 
the  whole  first  half  of  his  story  from  this  incident  is 
shown,  however,  by  the  close  resemblances  to  the  folk-tales, 
retained  by  him  and  lacking  in  Lanzelet}^ 

(3)  Now  for  the  theme  as  it  appears  in  the  Cliges  of 
Chrestien  de  Troyes.  Cliges,  leaving  his  court  in  Constan- 
tinople, learns  that  Arthur  has  appointed  a  fifteen  days' 
tournament.  (Only  four  days  are  told  of.)  He  at  once 
devises  the  scheme  of  fighting  there  in  differently  colored 
suits  of  armor.  He  already  has  four  horses,  white,  sorrel, 
fa^\^l-colored,  and  black.  He  sends  three  squires  off  to 
London  to  buy  three  siiits  of  armor,  black,  red,  and  green. 
His  original  suit  was  white, — a  gift  from  the  emperor, — 
so  that  he  is  now  provided  with  four  suits.  On  the  tourney 
day,  Sagremors  is  the  first  knight  to  take  the  field ;  at  him 
spurs  Cliges,  in  black  armor,  on  Morel,  his  black  steed. 

"Miss  Weston,  following  Ward,  contends  that  Walter  Map  wrote 
a  romance  on  Lancelot,  and  hints  that  the  French  original  of 
Lanzelet  was  this  romance.  As  evidence  she  cites  the  couplet  quoted 
at  the  beginning  of  this  article:  "I  am  not  the  only  one  who 
knows  the  art  of  lying, — Walter  Map  knows  his  part  too."  This 
can  hardly  be  cited  as  proof,  in  view  of  its  extremely  general 
character  and  its  likeness  to  other  personal  hits  by  Hugh  at  his 
contemporaries.  Cf.  Ipomedon  1.  5345ff. ;  and  1.  5511flF.  The  Map 
authorship  of  such  a  romance  appears  doubtful. 


IPOMEDON.  251 

Sagremors  is  overcome,  and  at  the  end  of  the  day  Cliges 
is  pronounced  the  winner.  When  he  goes  back  to  his 
lodgings,  he  hides  his  black  armor  and  hangs  up  the  green 
in  a  conspicuous  place.  Thus  he  escapes  being  known. 
Next  day  in  green  armor  on  the  fawn-colored  horse  he 
overthrows  Lancelot.  In  the  evening  he  hangs  up  the  red 
armor.  In  red  on  the  third  day  he  rides  the  sorrel  horse 
to  the  tourney  and  defeats  Perceval  le  Galois.  Again  he 
escapes  and  hangs  up  the  white  armor.  By  this  time  the 
wise  heads  recognize  that  the  victor  on  each  day  must  be 
one  and  the  same  man.  Gawain  proposes,  therefore,  to 
meet  him  the  next  day  and  learn  his  name.  Cliges  appears 
in  white.  At  the  first  joust  both  he  and  Gawain  are 
unhorsed.  Then  they  fight  an  even  battle  with  their 
swords  until  Arthur  parts  them.  Cliges,  by  the  way,  is 
Gawain's  sister's  son.  This  ends  the  tourney.  Cliges 
goes  in  state  to  the  court  and  makes  himself  known.  He 
soon  returns  to  Constantinople. 

Foerster,  the  enthusiastic  editor  of  Chrestien,  believes 
that  in  Cliges  (1160)  the  three  days'  tournament  theme 
was  first  introduced  into  literature,  and  that  from  it  Lanze- 
let  borrowed  directlv.  When  Miss  Weston  attacked  this 
theory,^^  WolfangGolther^^  replied  in  defense  of  Foerster, 
and  went  so  far  as  to  maintain  that  Cliges  is  also  the  source 
for  this  incident  in  Ipomedon.  The  present  writer  agrees 
with  Miss  Weston  in  thinking  that  the  natural  impression 
one  would  derive  from  Cliges  is  that  of  a  four  days'  tourna- 
ment, and  that  any  version  based  entirely  on  Cliges  would 
be  likely  to   follow  it  in  this  respect.     The  four  days' 

"She  endeavors  to  prove  that  Cliges  is  dependent  for  this  episode 
on  the  lost  French  original  of  Lanzclct,  but  from  lack  of  conclusive 
evidence,  falls  short  of  proof. 

^*  Zeitschrift  fiir  franzosische  Sprache  und  Literatur.     1903. 


252  CHARLES   HENRY   CARTER. 

fight  in  Cliges  looks  rather  like  an  elaboration,  in  the  style 
of  Chrestien,  of  the  simpler  three  days'  theme.  If  the 
test  from  folk-lore  is  of  value,  Ipomedon,  which  adheres 
much  more  closely  than  Cliges  to  the  folk-tale  type,  is  not 
likely  to  be  derived  wholly,  if  at  all,  from  Cliges,  where 
the  incident  is  so  sketchy  and  so  changed.  Hugh  must 
have  known  some  other  version.  Of  course  it  is  possible 
to  imagine  Hugh  finding  an  abbreviated  account  of  the 
tournament,  in  Cliges,  for  example,  or  in  the  lost  French 
original  of  Lanzelel,  and  expanding  it  from  his  own 
knowledge  of  the  folk-tale.  More  probably  he  had  before 
him  some  literary  version  of  the  incident  nearer  the  usual 
folk-lore  type.^^ 

(4)  Still  another  version  of  the  three  days'  tournament 
with  which  Ipomedon  may  be  compared  is  found  in  the 

'^However,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  Hugh  knew  Chrestien's  work. 
The  fight  of  Ipomedon  with  Capaneus,  his  half-brother,  is  somewhat 
like  that  of  Cliges  with  Gawain,  his  uncle:  they  fight  to  a  stand- 
still and  then  discover  their  relationship.  Moreover  there  is  some 
resemblance  between  the  love  of  Alexander  and  Soredamors  in  Cliges 
and  that  of  Ipomedon  and  La  Fiere.  The  parallel  is  one  of  style 
rather  than  of  incident.  There  are  in  each  long  monologues,  which 
are  psychological  analyses  of  new-born  love.  The  same  device  is 
used  of  having  the  speaker  make  some  statement  and  then  catch 
himself  up  on  the  last  words,  which  he  repeats  as  a  question. 

Grober  (Grundriss  der  Rom.  Phil.,  p.  585)  recognizes  this 
stylistic  influence. 

Kolbing  sees  dependence  of  incident  on  Chrestien  in  the  following 
points :  ( 1 )  Ipomedon  placed  as  sweetheart  of  Meleager's  queen 
imitates  Lancelot  placed  as  sweetheart  of  Guinivere  in  "Le  Chevalier 
de  la  Charette;"  (2)  the  fight  between  Ipomedon  and  Capaneus  is 
like  a  fight  in  "Le  Chevalier  au  Lyon;"  (3)  the  coming  of  Ismaine 
for  a  champion  is  like  the  coming  of  Lunete  in  "Chev.  au  Lyon." 
Upon  careful  investigation,  the  writer  sees  no  evident  dependence  in 
these  details:  the  first  point  is  based  on  resemblance  extremely  gen- 
eral; the  second  is  almost  no  parallel  at  all;  and  the  third  passage  in 
Ipomedon  is  so  evidently  drawn  from  a  different  source,  Le  Bel 
Inconnu  story,  that  the  slight  resemblance  to  Chrestien's  work  counts 
for  nothing. 


IPOMEDON.  253 

Partonopeus  story. ^^  Kolbing  cites  the  parallel.  This  story 
does  indeed  give  a  good  version,  but  two  very  distinctive 
features,  the  disguising  colors  and  the  secret  escape,  are 
lacking.  In  some  particulars  Partonopeus  resembles 
Iponiedon,  and  in  some  it  rather  strikingly  resembles  por- 
tions of  the  Lancelot  story.  Without  pausing  to  give  a 
summary  of  tiiis  tale,  let  us  enumerate  these  resem- 
blances. Hov\^  is  this  romance  like  Ipomedonf  The 
heroine  by  her  capricious  pride  has  driven  away  her  lover. 
Her  courtiers,  to  procure  her  a  husband,  decree  a  three 
days'  tournament,  the  victor  at  which  she  is  to  marry. 
She  mourns  her  lot,  but  considers  that  she  is  being  justly 
punished  for  her  pride.  The  hero  comes,  but  does  not 
make  himself  known  to  the  lady.  On  the  first  day  he  is 
in  white.  The  ladies  watch  his  success  from  a  tower.  At 
the  end  of  the  three  days  he  is  announced  the  victor. 
Detailed  descriptions  of  fights  are  given.  After  the 
tournament  the  hero  fights  a  special  duel  with  a  rival 
suitor.  The  heroines,  when  trying  to  speak  the  name  of 
the  lover,  stick  in  the  middle  of  it, — in  one  instance  a 
mighty  sigh  cleaves  it  in  twain,  and  in  the  other  she 
stammers.  (Kolbing  calls  attention  to  this  last  point.) 
How  is  the  romance  like  the  Lancelot  story?  The  hero, 
on  being  driven  away,  runs  demented  into  the  woods, 
where  he  is  later  found  and  cared  for.  He  had  alreadv 
won  extreme  favors  from  the  lady.  She  girds  his  sword 
upon  him.  He  is  taken  prisoner  by  a  cruel  knight.  The 
wife  of  the  knight  frees  him  on  parole  that  he  may  attend 
the  tourney.  She  furnishes  him  with  horse  and  armor. 
He  wins  and  returns  to  prison,  but  is  able  to  go  again  to 
court.     He  slays  the  cruel  knight  who  had  imprisoned  him. 

^^  Piirionopeus  de  Blois,  by  Denis  Pyramis,  ed.  G.  A.  Crapelet, 
Paris,  1834.  Partonope  of  Blois,  ed.  Buckley,  London,  1862.  Par- 
talopa  Saga,  ed.  0.  Klockhoflf,  Upsala,  1877. 


254  CHARLES    HENEY    CARTEK. 

When  these  points  are  thus  singled  out,  the  resemblances 
seem  stronger  than  they  really  are,  for  a  large  number  of 
incidents  and  details  which  lend  peculiar  cast  to  each  story 
are  absolutely  lacking  in  the  others. 

Opinions  differ  somewhat  as  to  the  date  and  origin  of 
the  Partono'peus  story.  It  seems  probable,  however,  that 
the  French  version,  ascribed  to  Denis  Pyramus,  dates  from 
the  latter  part  of  the  twelfth  century.  Whether  its  com- 
position precedes  or  follows  that  of  Ipomedon  has  not  been 
determined.  Since  Ipomedon,  however,  as  we  have 
pointed  out  many  times,  seems  to  stand  near  the  standard 
form  of  the  folk-tale,  much  nearer  than  Partonopeus,  it 
seems  doubtful  that  Hugh  borrowed  his  tournament  from 
such  a  source.  The  broken  name  of  the  lover  looks  like 
a  literary  borrowing  on  somebody's  part,  but  it  is  as  apt 
to  be  on  the  part  of  Denis  as  of  Hugh.  It  is  suggestive, 
however,  to  find  the  tournament  theme  turning  up  in  a 
romance  which  recalls  again  the  Lancelot  story.  It  makes 
one  wonder  if  both  Hugh  and  Denis  may  not  have  known 
some  lost  Lancelot  storv  with  similar  features. 

Two  more  romances,  both  late,  contain  the  tournament 
theme.      (5)  One  of  these,  Rosivall  and  Lillian,^^^"'  resem- 

"O.  Lengert  [Englische  Studicn,  XVI,  321f.,  and  XVII,  341f.), 
in  a  careful  edition  of  this  romance,  cites  many  apposite  folk-tales, 
and  incidentally  compares  BL  with  Ipomedon.  He  does  not  radically 
disagree  with  Ward,  who  thought  that  RL  borrowed  from  Ipomedon. 
Part  of  the  story,  minus  the  tournament  theme,  is  found  again  in 
various  ballad  forms,  notably  The  Lord  of  Lome  ami  the  False 
Steward.  (Child's  Eng.  and  Scottish  Ballads,  No.  271).  Child 
thought  the  ballad  derived  from  RL;  but  it  is  rather  noteworthy  that 
the  ballad  omits  altogether  jiist  that  part  of  RL  which  offers  close 
parallelism  to  Ipomedon.  This  circumstance  seems  to  indicate  that 
the  author  of  RL  adapted  the  tournament  and  tlie  hunting  from 
Ipomedon,  possibly  one  of  the  English  versions,  to  the  simple  ballad 
story,  which  still  persisted  till  modern  times. 


IPOMEDON.  255 

bles  Ipomedon  so  obviously  in  the  hunting  combined  with 
the  tournament,  that  one  may  regard  its  direct  dependence 
on  Ipomedon  as  certain.  The  other,  (G)  Richard  Coeur  de 
Lion^^  contains  the  three  disguises,  black,  red,  and  white ; 
the  secret  departure  of  the  hero  after  each  appearance ; 
the  detailed  account  given  the  hero  of  his  actions  by  those 
who  do  not  know  that  he  is  the  knight  under  discussion. 
However,  the  contest  is  all  on  one  da^^,  the  purpose  of  the 
tournament  is  not  to  win  a  lady,  the  hero  is  worsted  twice, 
the  colors  are  not  used  in  the  same  order  as  in  Ipomedon. 
This  romance,  nevertheless,  shows  the  persistence  of  the 
old  idea.  It  is  conceivable  that  Richard  may  have  actually 
done  some  such  thing,  incited  by  tlie  old  romances,^ ^  but 
it  is  more  probable  that  the  writer  of  the  romance  was 
the  one  who  adapted  the  idea.  Direct  literary  dependence 
on  Ipomedon  of  course  cannot  be  shown. 

The  foregoing  consideration  of  the  tournament  theme 
shows  at  least  how  widespread  and  persistent  it  is.  We 
can  point  to  no  literary  version  of  it  as  the  undoubted 
source  of  Ipomedon.  Folk-lore  would  seem  to  be  the 
ultimate  source.  Probably  much  in  Ipomedon  is  due 
to  Hugh's  own  imaginative  ingenuity.  The  literary  origi- 
nal from  which  he  adapted  the  idea  may  yet  be  discovered. 

III.     Relation  to  Le  Bel  Inconnu. 

We  turn  now  to  other  aspects  of  the  plot,  and 
find  a  literary  original  from  which  Hugh  probably 
adapted    a    motif.     His    exact    debt    to    it    has    never 

"Weber:   Metrical   Romances;   Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,   1.257f. 

"  Kittredge  (Harvard  Studies  and  Notes,  Vol.  V,  p.  94)  cites  an 
interesting  case  of  fact  in  the  life  of  Richard  Warwick,  about  the 
year  1416. 


256 


CHAELES   HENRY    CAETER. 


before  been  definitely  pointed  out.^*^  This  is  Le  Bel 
Inconnu  by  Eenaud  de  Beaujeu.  Certainly,  if  Hngb  did 
not  know  this  romance  itself,  he  mnst  have  known  a 
closely  allied  form  of  it.  Not  only  is  the  action  similar, 
but  also  at  times  the  phraseology.  Let  us  put  side  by  side 
sufficient  summary  and  quotation  to  make  this  fact  evident : 


Ip.  goes  to  Meleager's  court  in 
the  guise  of  a,  fool,  to  escape 
recognition.  King  and  Ivnights 
are  at  table.  Ip.  enters,  does 
not  dismount,  but  forces  his  old 
nag  along  with  blow  and  spur. 
He  addresses  king,  boasts  of 
former  prowess,  and  causes  great 
merriment.  He  makes  covenant 
with  king  that  he  be  granted  the 
option  of  accepting  or  refusing 
the  first  quest  in  defense  of 
maid  or  gentle  lady  which  may- 
offer.  Queen  and  steward  enter 
the  conversation.  King  grants 
covenant.  Ip.  dismounts,  thanks 
him  politely,  sits  down  at  table. 

Then  comes  into  room  a 
maiden  on  a  white  mule.  Trap- 
pings of  horse  are  described  at 
length:  ivory  saddle,  cover  of 
purple  "samit,"  gold,  tinkling 
bells,  etc.  Ismeine  is  described 
elaborately:  velvet  mantle,  "li 
cors  pareit  lunc  e  bel,"  "le 
chars  blanche,"  "e  cum  esteit 
beas  sis  visages,"  "Un  cercle  d'or 
el  chef  aveit,  La  crine  bloie 
avant  pendeit." 


Stranger  appears  at  Arthur's 
court.  King  and  knights  are  at 
table.  Stranger  rides  up,  salutes 
king  and  knights.  Arthur  invites 
him  to  dismoimt;  he  replies 
that  he  must  first  be  assured  of 
being  granted  the  first  gift  which 
he  may  ask  for.  The  king 
promises.  Stranger  then  dis- 
mounts, is  given  a  mantle,  and 
sits  down  at  table.  When  asked 
his  name,  he  says  his  mother 
called  him  "biel  fil."  Arthur 
decides  to  call  him  "Li  Biaus 
Desconneus." 


Before  the  tables  are  moved, 
comes  to  court  a  maiden  on  a 
"palefroi."  Description  of  her: 
"Gente  de  cors  et  de  vis  biele." 
She  was  clothed  with  "samit." 
"Face  ot  blance,"  "cors  avenant," 
"Bel  cief  avoit,  si  estoit 
blonde,"  "En  son  cief  ot  un 
cercle  d'or."  Description  of  horse 
and  trappings:  covered  with 
silk,  gold  and  precious  stones. 
With  her  comes  a  dwarf,  of  whom 
is  given  a  short  description. 


'"Kolbing  and  Miss  Weston  spoke  in  passing  of  parallelism,  but 
no  one  has  compared  them  closely  with  reference  to  other  versions 
of  the  story. 


IPOMEDON. 


257 


Ismeine   speaks : 
"Meleager,    reis   pouestis, 


Helie  speaks: 
"Artur,"  fait  ele,  "cntent  a  moi. 


Entendes,  sire,  ma  querele : 
Saluz  vus  raande  la  pucele, 
La    fere,    ke    nostra    nece    est. 


La  fille  au  roi  Gringars  te  mande 
Salus,  si  te  pria  et  demand© 
Secors. 


El  mund  n'at  tant  triste  pucele. 

****** 

Sa  grand  joie  turne  a  roburs, 
Se  par  vus  n'at  aukun  sucurs. 
Ma   dame   se    deit   desredner 
Par  le  cors  d'un  bon  chevaler." 

Li  reis   entendi  sa   resun, 
Esgarde  envirum  sa  meisun 
E  n'ot  nul  d'eus  un  sol  mot  dire." 
Ismeine    reproaclies    king    and 
knights.     Ip.   jumps   up   and 
"Sire,   fet  11,  vus   savez  ben 
Ke  reis  ne  deit  uientir  pur  ren." 
He  claims  the  quest.     After  some 
bickering,      the      king      replies, 
"Volenters,     fol,     ore     i     alez!" 
Ismeine     objects:      "N'irat     pas 
issi;   Od  moi  ne  voil   pas,   ke   il 
aut."     She  leaves  and  returns  to 
a  dwarf  whom  she  has  left  out- 
side of  the  city.     Dwarf  counsels 
her  to  admit  the  foolish  knight 
to  her  company.     She  refuses. 

Ip.   arms : 
"un    bon    hoberc    ad   tost   vestu, 
Elasca    \\n    heaume    gemme. 

****** 

Menez  li  fut  un  bon  cheval, 
Muntez  i  est  cest  bons  vassal. 
Un  escu  prent  e  lance  el  poing." 
He  sets  out  after  Ismeine. 


Moult  a  painne,  moult  a  dolor. 
Moult  ert  entree  en  grant  tristor. 
Envoie-li  tel   chevalier 
Qui  bien  li  puisse  avoir  mestier, 
Trestot   li   millor   que   tu   as." 

****** 

Li  rois  esgarde  et  atendoit 
Qui  le  don  li  demanderoit; 
Mais  n'i  trove  demandeor. 
Car  n'i  ot  nul  qui  n'ot  paor." 

Li  biaus  Desconnus  jumps  up 
and   claims   the   quest.     "Raison 
feras,   ce    m'est   a   via; 
Rois  es,  si  ne  dois   pas  mentir. 
Ne    covent    a    nului   faillir." 
Ce    dit    li    rois,    "Dont    i    ales." 
Helie  objects:  "Non  sera. 
Ja,  par  mon  cief,  a  moi  n'ira!" 
She  cries  out  against  the  Round 
Table,  and  leaves  the  court  with 
the   dwarf. 


Bel  Inconnu  arms: 
"Ses  cauces  lace,  I'aubere  vest, 
Et  en  son  cief  son  elme  trest. 
Puis  est  monte  en  son  destrier; 
Son  escu  li  porte  et  sa  lance." 
BI  takes  leave  of  king,  and  seta 
out  after  Helie  with  his  squire 
Robert.  "E  le  retorne,  si  le 
vit."     Ilelie  swears  that  she  will 


17 


:258  CHARLES   HENEY   CARTER. 

"Ele  ot  Tesfrei;  s'est  I'eturnee  not  willingly  suffer  his  company, 

Et   veit    celui    venir    I'estree."  and    counsels    him    to    go    back. 

Dwarf  refuses  to  send  Ip.  back,       BI  says  he  will  not  return,  and 
so    that    Ismeine    herself    turns       dwarf  intercedes  for  him. 
upon  him  and  tells  him  peremp- 
torily  to   go   back.     Ip.   answers 
in  his  role  of  fool. 

About  here  the  direct  parallelism  ceases,  for  the  suc- 
ceeding adventures  in  each  story  differ  widely.  In 
Ipomedon  v\'e  have  the  three  fights  with  the  relatives  of 
Leonin,  and  in  Le  Bel  Inconnu  we  have  the  fight  at  the 
ford,  the  fight  with  the  tliree  avengers,  the  adventure 
with  the  giants,  the  sparrow-hawk  adventure,  all  the  adven- 
tures at  L'lle  D'Or,  the  disenchantment  of  the  serpent 
woman,  etc.  It  is  interesting  to  observe,  however,  that 
Hugh  has  evidently  retained  a  proper  name  from  the 
story  he  was  following,  namely,  that  of  Malgis,  whom  he 
represents  as  first  to  fight  for  possession  of  Ismeine.  This 
is  doubtless  Malgeris,  the  knight  who  fights  against  BI 
at  the  He  D'Or.  In  the  Middle  English  lAheus  Desconus 
he  is  a  giant  named  Maugys.  It  is  rather  remarkable  that 
Hugh  should  have  derived  nearly  all  his  proper  names 
from  classical  sources,  and  yet  should  have  retained  this 
one  as  an  additional  foot-print  to  mark  where  he  had  been 
for  material. 

Schofield^^  has  had  occasion  to  compare  carefully 
four  versions  of  this  maiden  and  dwarf  ejiisode:  Liheaus 
Desconus,  Le  Bel  Inconnu,  Wigalois,  and  Carduino,  in 
Middle  English,  Old  Erench,  Middle  High  German,  and 
Italian,  respectively.  An  inspection  of  the  parallel  sum- 
maries which  he  gives,  coupled  with  the  comparison  just 
given   above,   shows   that,    as   compared  with   the  others, 

"  Studies  on  the  Liheaus  Desconus,  Harvard   Studies   and   Notes, 
Vol.  IV. 


IPOMEDON.  259 

Ipomedon  and  Le  Bel  Inconnu  are  very  closely  related. 
Let  us  point  out  details  common  to  these  two  and  lacking 
in  the  others.  (1)  Hero  rides  up  while  the  king  is  at 
table.  (2)  He  remains  obstinately  seated  on  horse-back 
till  his  request  is  granted.  (3)  The  dwarf  takes  no  part 
in  the  conference  with  the  king.  (4)  Elaborate  descrip- 
tion is  given  in  similar  phraseology  of  the  messenger  lady. 
(5)  She  begins  her  speech  by  delivering  salutation  from 
her  mistress.  ( 6 )  Messenger  explains  at  length  the  adven- 
ture to  be  undertaken.  This  is  true  of  Carduino  also,  but 
not  of  the  others.  (7)  The  king  looks  around  and  waits 
for  someone  to  offer  himself.  (8)  The  hero  prevails  on 
the  king  by  saying  that,  since  he  is  a  king,  he  should  not 
lie.  (9)  The  messenger  is  loud  in  her  complaint  of  the 
treatment  given  her.  (10)  Elaborate  description  of  the 
arming  of  hero.     This  is  also  true  of  Libeaus  Desconus. 

(11)  Tholomeu  in  Ip.  somewhat  resembles  the  squire 
Robert    in    BI.     No    such    character    in    other   versions. 

(12)  Similarity  of  phraseology  when  the  messenger  looks 
back  and  sees  hero  approaching.  In  only  two  minor  points 
does  Ipomedon  resemble  the  other  versions  as  opposed  to 
BI.  (1)  The  messenger  rides  on  a  white  mule.  In  BI 
the  horse  is  simply  "un  palefroi,"  but  in  Libeaus  Desconus 
and  in  Wigalois,  the  color  white  is  given.  (2)  Ipomedon 
wishes  to  have  the  option  of  undertaking  or  of  refusing 
the  first  fight  in  defense  of  lady  who  asks  aid.  In  BI 
the  hero  asks  simply  that  he  be  granted  the  first  request 
(unspecified)  that  he  shall  make.  In  Lib.  Desc,  like 
Ip.,  he  asks  definitely  for  permission  to  undertake  the 
first  fight  which  offers.  Wigalois  also  makes  a  definite 
request,  but  not  until  after  the  messenger  has  come  and 
stated  her  case.  Very  little  significance,  however,  can  be 
seen   in   these    details   of   difference.     In   regard   to   the 


260  CHAELES   HENEY   CAETEE. 

second  point  of  deviation  from  BI,  we  should  remember 
that  Ipomedon  comes  to  court  with  a  very  special  purpose, 
namely,  to  meet  that  messenger  who,  he  feels  sure,  will 
come  thither.  He  must  therefore  make  the  special  request 
to  provide  for  the  contingency  of  someone's  coming  on  a 
similar  errand  before  Ismeine.  We  therefore  see  that 
Hugh  was  forced  to  depart  from  the  story  before  him,  in 
order  to  adapt  the  incident  to  his  own  plot,  and  therefore 
his  agreement  here  with  the  other  versions  might  well  be 
a  coincidence. 

In  view  of  this  strong  resemblance,  and  of  a  few  other 
passages^^  where  the  phraseology  is  similar,  it  seems  prob- 
able that  Hugh  had  before  him  Renaud's  poem,  or  else  a 
French  source  for  Renaud's  poem.  Hippeau  places  the 
date  of  Le  Bel  Inconnu  as  approximately  1190.  If  Hugh 
made  use  of  it,  it  almost  certainly  was  written  before  1187. 

With  this  whole  episode  should  l>e  remembered  the 
Oareth  and  Lynet  story  in  Book  VI  of  Malory's  Morte 
Darthur.  Weber  has  said  -P  "The  treatment  which  Ipome- 
don receives  from  the  damsel  *  *  *  bears  great  similarity 
to  that  experienced  by  Libeus  Desconus  *  *  *  and  by 
Beaumains  in  Caxton's  Morte  d' Arthur.  The  latter  adven- 
ture is  undoubtedly  borrowed  from  one  of  the  two  former ; 
but  whether  the  author  of  the  Libeus  or  he  who  permed 
Ipomedon  is  entitled  to  the  claim  of  priority  of  invention 
it  is  now  impossible  to  decide."  (Weber  probably  knew 
only  an  English  version  of  Ipomedon.)  Sommer,  in  his 
investigation  of  Malory's  sources,  has  found  no  source  for 
Book  VI;  the  presumption,  however,  is  that  the  source 
was  French  prose,  possibly  a  lost  section  of  some  Prose 

"Cf.   Ip.  lines  377f.,   395f.,   407f..  2225f.,  2245f.,  and  7956f.,  with 
BI,  lines  3255f.,  2198f.,  2214f.,  2408f.,  3255f.,  and  4658f. 
"Metrical  Romances,  Vol.   Ill,  p.   363. 


IPOMEDON.  261 

Lancelot.  Certainly  Malory  did  not  base  his  story  wholly 
or  directly  either  on  the  LD-BI  story,  or  on  Ipomedon, 
or  on  any  other  known  version.  It  agrees  now  with 
LD-BI,  now  with  Ipomedon;  and  again  it  differs  widely 
from  them  and  from  any  other  version  of  the  story. 


IV.     Relation  to  Tristan. 

Through  the  maiden  and  dwarf  episode,  one  feature  is 
essentially  characteristic  of  Ipomedon:  The  hero's  assumed 
role  of  fool,  adopted  in  order  to  accomplish  his  designs  the 
better.  This  idea  is  clearly  a  skilful  way  to  avoid  logical 
difficulties  in  Hugh's  plot.  Ipomedon  had  been  at 
Meleager's  court  before,  and  could  not  therefore  ride  up, 
like  the  Fair  Unknown,  to  demand  the  quest  openly.  He 
must  go  in  disguise.  Kolbing  at  this  point  cites  the  story 
of  Tristan;  and  investigation  shows  that  Hugh  may  very 
probably  have  remembered  Tristan's  "folie."^^  Surely 
this  Tristan  episode,  which  space  forbids  us  to  summarize 
and  compare  carefully  with  Ip.,  is  much  like  the  corres- 
ponding episode  in  Ipomedon.  The  hero  has  already 
been  at  court,  and,  wishing  to  return,  adopts  the  disguise 
of  fool ;  he  cuts  his  hair,  scrapes  his  skin,  and  puts  on 
old  clothes ;  he  comes  in  while  the  king,  queen  and  nobles 
are  feasting;  he  sets  the  whole  company  in  a  roar  of 
laughter  with  his  fooling.  The  essence  of  his  fooling  is 
this :   he   tells   the   absolute    truth    about   certain    former 

"  Tv.'o  versions  are  preserA^ed  in  Old  French  Aerse,  pub.  by  Michel: 
Tristan,  Londres,  1835.  Vol.  II,  p.  89,  and  Vol.  I,  p.  215.  The 
second  is  much  shortened.  The  episode  is  not  found  in  the  English 
"Sir  Trisfrem,"  nor  in  Gottfried  von  Strassburg's  "Tristan."  It 
appears  in  a  greatly  changed  form  in  Old  Norse  prose,  printed  by 
Kolbing:  "Die  Nordische  und  die  Englische  Version  der  Tristan  Sage." 
Ileilbronn,   1878. 


262  CHAKLES   HENKY    CARTER. 

occurrences,  of  which  at  least  one  other  in  the  company 
besides  himself  knows;  but  because  of  his  disguise  his 
remarks  are  not  taken  in  earnest,  or  are  not  understood, 
so  that  in  his  mouth  they  seem  broadly  witty.  Of  course, 
many  other  instances  of  assumed  foolishness  or  madness 
may  be  cited,  but  that  particular  type  which  manifests 
itself  in  making  fun  at  the  expense  of  the  hearers  by 
allusions  to  past  events  which  they  do  not  recognize  as 
true,  appears,  as  far  as  the  writer  knows,  only  in  Tristan 
and  Ipomedon.  Versions  of  the  Tristan  story  existed 
before  Hugh's  time;  Chrestien,  for  example,  often  refers 
to  Tristan,  and  probably  wrote  a  version  himself.  Though 
the  episode  does  not  occur  in  all  versions  of  the  Tristan 
storv,  there  is  no  reason  for  thinkinc;  that  it  is  not  suffi- 
ciently  old  for  Hugh  to  have  knoAvn  it. 

V.     Fight  Between  Brothers. 

One  of  the  principal  minor  themes  of  Ipomedon  is  the 
hero's  discovery  that  Capaneus  is  his  half-brother.  This 
discovery  is  prepared  for  by  the  poet  with  some  artistic 
skill.  He  does  not  give  away  this  point  of  his  story  at 
the  beginning,  as  many  mediaeval  poets  might  do.  No 
hint  is  dropped  of  the  relationship  between  the  two  knights, 
until  they  have  fought  to  a  standstill  and  Capaneus  has 
caught  sight  of  the  ring.  Then,  however,  we  can  see  how 
their  lives  have  been  converging. 

The  fight  between  relatives,  when  neither  knows  the 
other,  is  a  dearly  beloved  situation  among  mediaeval 
^vriters.  Very  frequently  the  combat  is  between  father 
and  son.  This  subject  has  been  carefully  investigated 
by  Potter,^ ^  whose  book  contains  an  appendix  giving  a 

^^  M.  A.  Potter:  Sonrah  and  Rustum,  London,  1902.     See  appendix, 
p.  207. 


iroMEDON.  263 

list,  gathered  from  folk-lore  and  romance,  of  twenty-seven 
combats  between  brothers.  In  not  one  of  these,  however, 
does  the  identification  by  a  ring  occur.  Ipornedon  seems 
to  be  unique  in  this  respect.  Identification  by  a  ring, 
how^ever,  is  not  unusual  in  stories  of  combat  between  father 
and  son.  Good  examples  of  this  are  found  in  the  lays  of 
Doon^^  and  Milun.'^''  It  cannot  be  said  that  Hugh  adapts 
the  idea  very  happily  to  suit  his  situation,  for  he  appar- 
ently does  not  see  the  logical  difficulties  in  the  way.  It  is 
quite  natural  for  a  father  to  leave  a  ring  with  the  mother 
to  be  placed  on  the  boy's  finger  when  he  should  grow  up, 
but  does  the  ring  idea  suit  brothers  ?  Capaneus  and 
Ipomedon  are  apparently  about  the  same  age,  and  how 
should  Capaneus  know  the  ring  given  Ipomedon  by  the 
mother  of  them  both  ?  If  the  queen  had  known  where 
Capaneus  was,  she  would  not  have  resorted  to  the  ring 
as  a  means  of  bringing  the  brothers  together.  It  would 
then  appear  that  she  had  lost  all  knoAvledge  of  her  former 
son,  in  early  years,  and  we  are  not  told  how  a  long-lost 
son  should  know  that  his  mother  had  another  son  by  a 
second  marriage,  and  that  he  might  recognize  him  by 
means  of  a  ring.  Probably  Hugh  derived  his  idea  from 
some  such  story  as  Doon  or  Milun,  but  did  not  show  his 
usual  skill  in  adaptation. 


VI.     Claim  of  Latin  Original. 

Thus  far  in  investigating  the  sources  of  Ipomedon  we 
have  not  considered  the  words  of  the  poet  himself  in  his 

**  Romania,  VIII,  p.  59. 

"Die  Lais  de  Marie  de  France.     Ed.   K.   Warnke.     Halle,    1885, 
p.  152f. 


264  CHARLES   HEXRY    CAETEE. 

prologue.  After  commenting  on  the  duty  of  transmitting 
one's  knowledge  for  the  benefit  of  others,  he  continues  in 
substance  as  follows:  "I  marvel  greatly  at  those  wise 
clerks  who  understand  several  languages,  that  they  have 
passed  by  this  history,  so  that  they  have  not  kept  it  in 
memory.  I  don't  say  that  he  did  not  tell  it  well,  who  has 
written  it  down  in  Latin ;  l)ut  there  are  more  laymen 
than  learned  men,  and  if  the  Latin  be  not  translated, 
scarcely  will  they  understand.  Therefore  I  wish  to  tell 
the  story  in  French  as  briefly  as  I  know  how,  and  then 
both  clerk  and  layman  will  understand." 

This  claim  of  a  Latin  original  is  very  doubtfully  true. 
After  once  getting  the  prologue  off  his  hands,  Hugh  does 
not  in  any  subsequent  passage  of  his  long  poem  allude  to 
an  original  of  any  kind.  Moreover,  it  seems  to  have  been 
a  rather  common  trick  for  a  romancer  to  protest 
that  his  original  was  written  in  Latin,  in  order  to  gain 
the  readier  hearing  for  his  own  fabrications.  The  author- 
ity of  Latin  was  great.  Ward,  in  his  Catalogue,  con- 
siders several  cases  in  point.  There  is  much  doubt  that 
there  ever  existed  a  certain  "grand  liure  del  graal"  in 
Latin,  kept  in  the  abbey  of  Salisbury,  out  of  which  are 
said  to  be  translated  Map's  "liure  del  graal"  (cf.  Ward, 
p.  348)  ;  the  Tristan,  by  Luces  de  Gast  (Ward,  357,  363) ; 
and  the  Meliadus  by  Helie  de  Borron.  The  ascription  to 
a  Latin  source  in  Perceforest  is  a  clear  case  of  lying 
(Ward,  378).  The  prologue  to  a  prose  Saint  Graal 
says  the  book  was  first  written  by  Christ,  and  then  came 
"mes  sires  robers  de  borron  qui  cest«  estoire  translate  de 
latin  en  franchois"   (Ward,  340). 

We  have  still  better  reason,  however,  than  this  a  priori 
reason,  for  doubting  a  Latin  source  for  Ipomedon.  Let 
us  compare  with  Hugh's  prologue  two  others,  that  of  the 


IPOMEDON.  265 

Roman  de  Thehes,  and  that  of  the  Roman  de  Troie.     I 
first  quote  certain  lines  from  the  Ipomedon. 

Moult  me  mervail  de  ces  clers  sages, 

Ky  entendent  plusurs  langages, 

K'il   ont   lesse  ceste  estorie, 

Ke  mis  ne  Font  en  memorie;   etc. — 

Si  li  Latin  n'est  translatez 

Gaires    n'i    erent   entendanz; 

Por  ceo  voil  jeo  dire  en  romanz 

A  plus  brevment  qe  jeo  saurai, 

Si  entendrunt  and  clerc  and  lai,  etc. — 

Mes   pur  hastiver  la  matire, 

Nos   estovra  par  bries   motz  dire: 

Fors  la  verrour  n'y  acrestrai, 

Dirai  brefment  ceo  que  j'en  sai,  etc. — 

Ne  voil  tut  mon  sen  celer  mes : 

Or  m'escotez  si   aiez  pes! 

Certain  lines  from  the  prologue  to  the  Roman  de  Thehes 
are  as  follows : 

Qui  sages  est  nel  deit  celer 

Ainz  por  co  deit  son  sen  monstrer 

Que,  quant  serra  del  siecle  alez, 

En  eeit  pues  toz  jorz  remembrez,  etc. — 

Por  CO  ne  vueil  mon  sen  taisir 

Ma  sapience   retenir; 

Ainz  me  delet  a  aconter 

Chose  digne  de  remembrer. 

Or  s'en  voisent  de  tot  mestier, 

Se  ne  sont  clerc  o  chevalier 

Car  aussi  pueent  escouter 

Come  li  asnes  al  harper. 

From  the  prologue  to  the  Roman  de  Troie  come  the  follow- 
ing lines: 

Salemons  nos  enseigne  et  dit 
Et  si  lit  len  en  son  escrit 
Que  nul  ne  deit  son  sen  celer, 
Ainz  le  deit  len  si  demostrer 
Que  len  i  ait  prou  et  enor. 

(They  who  find  valuable  old  books  and  keep  silent  about 
them  verily  do  foolishly). 


266  CHARLES   HENRY   CARTER. 

Et  por  CO  me  voil  travaillier 

Et   une  estoire   comencier, 

Que  de  latin  ou  gie  la  truis 

Se  j'ai  lo  sen,  et  se  jo  puis 

La  voldrai  si  en  romanz  metre,  etc. — 

Dire  vus  dei  ci  a  bries  motz 

De  quel  fait  iert  li  livres  toz. 

It  looks  as  if  Iliigli  were  adapting  ideas  for  his 
prologue  from  these.  Moreover,  his  debt  to  the  Roman  de 
Thebes  does  not  end  here.  It  seems  very  probable  that 
Hugh  derived  from  it  many  of  his  proper  names.  The 
following  names  appear  in  each  romance:  Adrastus, 
Amphion,  Amphiaras  (in  Ip.,  Amfiorax),  Antenor, 
Capaneus,  Creon,  Daire  (in  Ip.,  Daires),  Diana,  Drias, 
Egeon,  Eurimedon,  Ipomedon,  Ismaine,  Meleager,  Minos, 
ISTestor,  Tholmes  (in  Ip.,  Tholomeu).^®  Kolbing,  follow- 
ing Ward,  thought  that  Hugh  might  have  known  enough 
Latin  to  read  in  the  "Fahidae"  of  Hyginus  about  the  seven 
kings  slain  before  Thebes.  Kolbing  states  that  in  Hyginus 
Capaneus  and  Hippomedon  are  mentioned  as  uterine 
brothers — the  relationship  which  they  bear  in  Hugh's 
romance ;  but  this  is  an  error.  The  words  in  Hyginus  are 
these :  "Capaneus  Hipponoi  filius  ex  Astynome  Talai  filia 
sorore  Adrasti  Argivus,"  and  later,  "Hippomedon  Mnesi- 
machi  filius  ex  Mythidice  Talai  filia  sorore  Adrasti 
Argivus."  It  thus  appears  that  Capaneus  and  Ipomedon 
were  merely  first  cousins,  their  mothers  being  sisters ;  so 

"Kolbing  and  Ward  were  apparentlj'  unacquainted  with  this  fact. 
L.  Constans,  however,  recognized  it  in  his  preface  to  the  Roman  de 
Thehes:  "Le  Boman  de  Thebes,  a  resu  tin  prologue  et  une  suite.  *  *  * 
Je  veux  parler  des  ronians  d'  Ipomedon  and  de  Protliesilaiis,  dont 
I'auteur  est  Huon  de  Rotelande,  de  Credenhill,  en  Cornuailles.  *  *  * 
Ipomedon  *  *  *  emprunte  presque  tous  ses  personnages  au  Roman  de 
Thebes,  aiiquel  il  se  reffere  dans  un  passage  curieux."  Of  course  it 
is  not  fair  to  call  Ip.  merely  a  prologue  to  the  Roman  de  Thebes; 
neither   is   Credenhill    in   Cornwall. 


IPOMEDON.  267 

what  at  first  seemed  like  a  fairlj  strong  argument  that 

Hugh  knew  Hygiuus,  since  in  the  Roman  de  Thebes  these 

two  heroes  are  not  mentioned  as  relatives,  becomes  weaker. 

In  the  B.  de  Th.,  however,  they  are  introduced  together. 

Cf.  1.  2003  and  2007.     Ward  says  that  Hugh  may  have 

been  distorting  a  little  knowledge  from  Hyginus  when  he 

says  of  Amfiorax  (i.  e.,  Amphiaraus)  that  he  was  a  "devin" 

attached  to  Adrastus  the  duke  of  Athens.     But  this  fact 

was  easily  derivable  from  the  B.  de  Th.,  cf.   1.   2025ff. 

The  reference  in  Hyginus  is  very  vaguely  apposite.     Cf. 

Fab.    LXXIIL     Still   further,    it   seems   likely   that   in 

several  places  Hugh  kept  the  B.  de  Th.  in  mind  as  a  model, 

especially  in  descriptions  of  persons. ^^ 

At  the  end  of  Ip.  we  find  this  significant  passage,  1. 

10539: 

De    ceste    estorie,    k'ai    ci    faite, 
Est  cele  de  Thebes  estraite: 
A   Thebes   fut   Ipomedon, 
Aillurs  querrez,  si  viis  est  bon, 
Cument  ilokes  li  avint. 

"From  this  history  that  I  have  made,  is  that  of  Thebes 
continued ;  Ipomedon  was  at  Thebes, — seek  elsewhere,  if 
you  wisli,  to  see  how  he  fared  there."  Hugh  may  be  trying 
to  find  a  proper  place  for  his  story  in  the  eyes  of  those 
who  already  knew  the  B.  de  Th.  Where  have  you  heard 
about  these  people  ?  In  the  History  of  Thebes,  to  be  sure. 
My  story  belongs  in  time  just  before  the  events  chronicled 
there. 

In  view  of  this  evidence,  it  looks  as  if  we  had  caught 

'°  Compare  E.  de  Th.  7S3ff.  with  Ip.  401ff.;  Th.  1.  3802  and  8427ff. 
with  Ip.  2201ff. — very  similar  passages.  Also  Th.  1.  4355  with  the 
tournament  descriptions  in  Ip.  Also  Th.  1.  3391-3407;  4412ff.; 
4427fr.  One  of  Hugh's  favorite  tricks  of  style  is  anaphora,  and  this 
device  is  frequently  employed  also  in  Th.     Cf.  1.  2810,  4899,  4555. 


268  CHARLES   HENRY   CARTER. 

Hugh  practising  his  "art  of  lying"  when  he  professed  a 
Latin  original  for  his  romance.  Especially  in  those  por- 
tions where  he  appears  to  be  adapting  from  contemporary 
French  literature  is  a  Latin  original  almost  impossible. 
The  Roman  de  Thebes  goes  back  ultimately  to  Statins, 
and  we  can  conceive  Hugh  claiming  for  his  story  the  same 
authority  in  Latin  which  this  romance,  already  popular 
perhaps,  claimed  and  possessed.  Several  other  works 
besides  the  Roman  de  Thebes  and  the  Roman  de  Troie  were 
adapted,  if  not  translated  from  Latin  about  this  time  and 
before.  We  may  cite  the  Alexander  story,  resting  on  the 
Latin  version  by  Julius  Valerius  of  the  Pseudo-Callis- 
thenes;  the  Eneas,  perhaps  by  Benoit,  a  travesty  on  the 
Aeneid  in  the  spirit  of  the  middle  ages;  Chrestien's 
adaptation  of  Ovid,  now  lost ;  and  Jules  Cesar  (13th  cent.) 
from  the  Pharsalia  of  Lucan.^°  It  was  natural,  therefore, 
for  a  poet  who  wished  to  give  currency  to  a  romance  of 
home  manufacture  to  tell  a  white  lie  about  a  Latin  source. 

VIT.     Place  Amoxg  Romances. 

Now  Gaston  Paris^^  classes  both  Ipomedon  and  Pro- 
thesilaus  as  coming  into  French  from  Byzantine  sources 
by  oral  tradition  without  passing  through  Latin,  This 
would  happen  during  the  time  of  the  crusades,  when  con- 
nections between  Frenchmen  and  Greeks  became  direct. 
Under  the  same  caption  he  places  the  following  romances : 
Eraclc,  by  Gautier  d'Arras,  1100;  Floire  et  Blanchefleur 
(12th  cent.)  ;  Florimont  (1188)  ;  Athis  et  Porphirias; 
Comte  de  Poitiers  (12th  cent.)  ;  Roman  de  la  Violette 
(1225)  ;  Floire  et  Jeanne;  Guillaume  de  Dole;  Constant 

Tor  those  and  other  examples  see  Gaston  Paris:  La  Litf.     Fran- 
faise  adi  Moyen  Age,  second  cd.,  1890.     Chapter  II. 
"La  Litt.     Frangaise  au  Moyen  Age.     Chapter  III. 


IPOMEDON.  269 

I'empereur;  Manehine  (13tli  cent.)  ;  Partenopeus  de  Blois 
(12tli  cent.)  ;  Cliges;  Cleomades ;  Floriant  et  FloreUe; 
Guillaume  de  Palerme;  L'Escoufie;  Clarus;  and  Berinus. 
Of  the  group  as  a  whole,  he  says  in  substance :  ''All  these 
have  in  general  the  same  style  and  the  same  tone,  as  they 
have  the  same  form, — octosyllabic  verses  rhyming  in 
couplets.  The  principal  subject  is  love,  which,  hindered 
during  the  story,  ends  by  triumphing.  There  are  mingled 
with  this  imiumerable  adventures  on  sea  and  land,  enchant- 
ments, predictions,  and  metamorphoses.  Destined  for 
elegant  society,  these  romances  have  usually  sought  part 
of  their  success  in  the  portrayal  of  its  customs,  in  the 
exact  and  brilliant  description  of  its  exterior  life." 

It  is  noteworthy  that  for  nearly  every  one  of  these 
romances,  except  for  Ipomedon  and  Prothesilaus,  Gaston 
Paris  adds  a  clause  or  two,  sometimes  more,  to  show  the 
Greek  or  Byzantine  element  which  he  discovers.  It  might 
appear  that  he  wished  to  classify  Ipomedon  somewhere, 
and,  influenced  by  the  Greek  names,  possibly,  and  the 
scene  laid  in  Sicily  and  Italy,  thought  it  convenient  to 
call  it  Byzantine.  We  have  seen,  however,  that  the  names 
do  not  imply  a  direct  Greek  source,  and  that  the  scene  does 
not  necessarily  imply  such.  The  character  of  the  story, 
moreover,  is  not  happily  described  as  ''innumerable  adven- 
tures on  sea  and  land,  enchantments,  predictions,  and 
metamorphoses."  Still  less  is  it  described  by  Ten  Brink,^- 
who,  in  speaking  of  the  romantic  themes  brought  through 
the  crusaders  from  Byzantine  and  Late  Greek  sources, 
says:  "As  to  subject-matter,  we  find  a  pair  of  lovers  who 
are  pursued  or  parted,  who  endure  all  sorts  of  adventures, 
and  are  happily  rescued  from  ever-recurring  perils.  The 
execution  shows  an  absence  of  all  analysis  of  motive  and 

"  History  of  English  Literature,  I,  p.  170.     Translated  by  Kennedy, 
1889. 


270  CHARLES   HENEY   CAKTEE. 

of  all  portrayal  of  character.  There  is  a  predominance 
of  chance,  an  effeminate  sentimentality  in  the  treatment 
of  the  erotic  element,  together  with  detailed  descriptions 
of  beautiful  gardens,  fountains,  etc.  The  favorite  roman- 
tic apparatus  consists  of  storms,  shipwreck,  land  or  sea 
robbers,  caves  in  which  men  hide,  and  the  like."  He  does 
not  include  Ipomedon  under  this  head,  however, — does  not 
mention  it  at  all,  indeed. 

Ipomedon  can  hardly  be  placed,  as  Paris  places  it,  in 
such  company,  however  honorable  that  company  may  be. 
Ipomedon  seems  essentially  like  a  manufactured  romance, 
in  which  Hugh  has  made  free  use  of  the  ideas  of  his 
predecessors.  In  a  stock  prologue  he  invested  his  story 
with  the  authority  of  a  Latin  source.  With  much  skill 
he  elaborated,  keeping  his  attention  well  fixed  on  the 
main  plot  of  the  story  w^hich  he  had  outlined,  and  resisting 
the  besetting  mediaeval  sin  of  rambling  digression.  His 
romance  cannot  be  called  Arthurian,  though  if  he  had 
borrowed  his  names  from  Chrestien's  romances  instead  of 
from  the  Roman  de  Thebes,  and  had  localized  the  story  in 
England  instead  of  Sicily,  the  difference  from  Arthurian 
romance  would  not  be  great.  It  is  not  among  the  bio- 
graphical romances,  so-called,  where  the  romancer  traces 
the  fortunes  of  his  hero  from  the  days  of  his  father  to 
the  days  of  his  grandchildren,  and  strings  adventures  on 
the  life  thread  of  each.  It  belongs  to  none  of  the  great 
cyclic  romances.  It  can  hardly  be  called  Byzantine.  It 
might  be  called  a  sporadic  romance,  based  partially  on 
folk-lore,  and  manufactured  with  conscious  literary  art 
by  an  Englishman,  who,  like  the  other  dominant  English- 
men of  his  day,  happened  to  write  French,  and  who  had 
never  heard  of  the  modern  sin  of  plagiarism. 


THE  MOORS  m  SPANISH  POPULAR  POETRY 

BEFORE  IGOO. 


By  William  Wistar  Comfort,  Ph.D. 


THE  MOOES  IN  SPANISH  POPULAR  POETEY 

BEEOEE  1600. 

Sismondi,  together  with  Faiiriel,  Schack,  Wolf,  Durun, 
Dozy,  Menendez  y  Pelayo  and  the  whole  century  of  his- 
torians who  have  dealt  with  the  influence  of  the  Mahometan 
peoples  upon  European  civilization,  do  full  justice  to  the 
mediaeval  foes  of  Christian  Europe.  Not  only  are  the 
Arab  triumphs  in  science,  philosophy  and  literature 
rehearsed  in  general  by  nineteenth  century  historians,  but 
individual  enthusiasts  stand  out  here  and  there  who  would 
have  us  believe  that  Christian  Europe  owes  a  great  part  of 
what  is  best  in  its  arts  and  sciences  to  the  learning  and 
accomplishments  of  those  divers  races  which  we  may 
group  under  their  mediaeval  appellation  of  Saracens. 

Leaving  aside  the  unquestioned  interchange  of  influence 
upon  the  natural  sciences,  philosophy  and  architecture 
which  resulted  from  the  shock  of  Christian  and  Moslem 
in  southern  Europe  during  a  period  of  seven  or  eight 
centuries,  it  is  interesting  to  consider  the  aspect  under 
which  the  Saracens  appeared  to  the  purveyors  of  popular 
literature  in  southern  Europe.  It  is  not  a  question  here 
of  borrowed  motifs  in  the  French  fabliaux  and  contes,  or 
of  the  alleged  adopted  forms  of  verse  in  the  early  Pro- 
vencal and  Spanish  lyric  poetry.  The  inflow  of  oriental 
fable  upon  European  literature  is  as  unquestioned  nowa- 
days by  scholars  as  the  development  of  lyric  verse  forms 
in  southern  Europe  independent  of  all  Arab  influence 
is  stoutly  maintained.  Eather  are  we  concerned  to  learn 
just  what  was  the  impression  made  upon  the  mind  of  the 
European  from  the  twelfth  to  the  sixteenth  century  by 
i8  (273) 


274  WILLIAM  WISTAE  COMFORT. 

the  legendary  or  actual  presence  of  the  Saracens.  To 
borrow  the  convenient  phrase  of  Gaston  Paris,  what  was 
the  "poetic  history"  of  the  Saracens  in  European  litera- 
ture ?  How  much  of  a  position  did  they  occupy,  and  in 
what  fashion  did  the  Christian  poets  use  them  as  dramatis 
personae  ? 

To  answer  this  question  in  complete  detail  is  too  gi-eat 
an  undertaking  for  our  present  purpose.  The  Spanish 
romances,  the  Old  French  chansons  de  geste  and  romans 
d'aventure,  the  Italian  court  epics  of  Pulci,  Boiardo,  Ari- 
osto  and  Tasso, — all  present  the  Saracens.  They  are  stock 
personages  in  the  heroic  poetry  of  the  Romance  domain 
until  the  sixteenth  century.  The  literary  field  which  they 
have  invaded  is  of  vast  size, — co-extensive,  indeed,  with 
the  European  territory  once  threatened  by  their  arms. 
For  the  purpose  of  making  our  observations  more  tangible, 
we  may  confine  our  attention  in  this  essay  to  the  treat- 
ment of  one  of  the  Saracen  peoples,  in  this  case  the 
Moors,  in  the  Spanish  popular  poetry  before  1600.  By 
referring  in  the  course  of  our  examination  to  the  Saracens 
as  they  appear  in  France  and  Italy,  we  shall  at  the  same 
time  get  some  comparative  view  of  their  treatment  at  the 
hands  of  the  three  Christian  nations  with  which  the  Infidels 
came  chiefly  into  contact.  Though  not  as  exhaustive  as 
we  hope  to  make  this  study  at  a  later  date,  the  general 
history  of  the  Saracens  in  Christian  poetry  may  here  be 
traced  more  distinctly  than  has  been  done  heretofore  by 
those  literarv  critics  who  have  been  concerned  with  the 
Saracens  only   incidentally. 

It  must  be  stated  at  the  outset  that  nowhere  in  the 
literature  which  we  are  about  to  survey  are  the  followers 
of  Mahomet  represented  as  we  must  believe  them  actually 
to  have  been.     Nowhere,  except  in  Spain,  were  circum- 


THE    MOOES    IN    SPANISH    POPULAK    POETRY.  275 

stances  favorable  to  any  sympathetic  and  detailed  examina- 
tion of  a  people  from  whom  the  western  Christians  felt 
themselves  to  be  separated  by  that  widest  of  dividing  clefts 
— religion.  Even  in  Spain,  during  the  eight  centuries  of 
partial  occupation  by  the  Moors,  the  essential  separation 
between  the  two  races  seems  to  have  been  always  felt, 
and  by  many  laws  to  have  been  accentuated.  Schack's 
observation  commends  itself  as  being  very  near  the  truth : 
''One  cannot  escape  the  tremendous  cleft  which  separated 
the  Christians  and  Mahometans  in  matters  of  belief,  and 
made  excessively  difficult  any  contact  of  the  two  civiliza- 
tions."^ If,  in  spite  of  numerous  qualifications,  the  truth 
of  this  remark  may  be  asserted  in  the  case  of  Spain, 
with  much  greater  confidence  can  it  be  asserted  in  the 
case  of  France  and  Italy,  where  the  contact  between  the 
oriental  and  occidental  peoples  was  never  more  than  of  a 
fortuitous  and  temporary  nature.  The  actual  incursions 
of  Saracens  into  the  territory  of  France  and  Italy  occurred, 
for  the  most  part,  so  long  before  the  composition  of  the 
earliest  poetry  we  have  in  the  vulgar  tongues,  that  any 
description  of  the  Infidels  based  upon  observation  was  out 
of  the  question.  Before  the  time  of  our  earliest  French 
epic  poems,  the  Saracens  had  become  assured  of  a  promi- 
nent and  permanent  inheritance  in  the  trouvere's  pack 
of  legendary  lore,  but  an  inheritance  saddled  withal  by 
literary  convention  and  popular  prejudice.  Strange  to 
relate,  the  revival  of  interest  in  the  Saracen  awakened 
by  the  Crusades  and  by  the  later  piratical  onslaughts  of 
the  Berbery  corsairs  availed  little  to  bring  the  true  Saracen 
any  nearer  to  the  jjopular  mind.  Not  until  Cervantes 
took  up  the  subject  with  his  practical  experience  and  his 
love  of  realism,    as   part  of   a   political   crusade,    do  we 

^  Poesie  und  Kunst  dcr  Araber    (1865),  v.  II,  pp.  91,  92. 


276  WILLIAM  WISTAK  COMFORT. 

get  any  true  picture  of  the  life  and  manners  of  the  hostile 
races.^  Nowhere  in  the  mediaeval  literature  of  France, 
so  far  as  we  are  aware,  is  a  Saracen  to  be  found  portrayed 
with  the  truth  and  the  colors  we  should  expect  from  an 
eye-witness.  Yet,  in  French  narrative  poetry  of  the 
eleventh  to  the  fourteenth  century  the  Saracen  is  every- 
where. He  is  well-nigh  as  inevitable  in  a  Franch  chanson 
de  geste  and  in  many  of  the  romans  d'aventure  as  are  the 
Moros  and  Moriscos  of  Spain  in  the  heroic  poems  and 
popular  romances  of  the  Peninsula. 

In  the  earliest  monuments  of  Spanish  heroic  poetry, 
such  as  the  Poema  del  Cid  (1150  circ.)  and  the  Poema  de 
Fernan  Gongalez  (1250  circ.)  one  is  struck  by  the  fact 
that  the  Moors  are  taken  for  granted.  The  Christian 
poets  feel  under  no  necessity  to  explain  their  presence,  nor 
do  the  Moors  possess  the  slightest  romantic  interest  for 
the  Christian  public.  Since  the  time  of  Don  Pelayo's 
stalwart  resistance  until  the  reconquest  of  Alfonso,  as 
narrated  in  the  Cronica  General,  it  was  one  long  up-hill 
fight  to  regain  the  northern  and  central  kingdoms  from  the 
Infidel  invader.  Thus,  we  should  expect  to  find  the  Moors 
consistently  regarded  as  enemies  of  the  true  God,  to  be 
uncompromisingly  converted  or  slaughtered.  So,  indeed, 
we  do  find  them  in  the  earliest  French  chansons  de  geste. 
But  in  Spain  we  have  to  reckon  with  the  innumerable 
jealousies  between  local  Christian  monarchs  and  the  fre- 
quent quarrels  between  these  monarchs  and  their  powerful 
vassals.  In  other  words,  the  unified  resistance  of  Chris- 
tian Spain  opposed  to  the  solid  attack  of  the  Moors  is  in 
popular  poetry  as  far  from  being  established  as  it  is  in 
history.     It  is  unnecessary  to  cite  the  numerous  instances 

=  Cf.  Emile  Chasles,  Michel  de  Cervantes:  Sa  vie,  son  temps    (2d 
ed.,  1866),  Chapter  V. 


THE    MOORS    IN    SPANISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  277 

of  political  alliances  for  private  gain  narrated  as  existing 
between  individual  Moorish  and  Christian  chiefs.  In 
Spain  we  find  no  parallel  to  the  French  and  Italian  con- 
ception of  Christendom  nncompromisingly  arrayed  under 
Charlemagne  against  the  definitely  planned  aggression  of 
the  Infidels.  Policy  and  expediency  weighed  more  than 
religious  affiliation  in  the  early  relations  of  the  two  races 
in  Spain. 

As  Dozy  has  well  shown,"  the  people  were  interested  in 
the  Cid  primarily  as  a  great  independent  vassal,  who  could 
dispense  with  the  favor  of  an  ungrateful  king.  The 
Poema  del  Cid  does  not  sing  the  praises  of  a  defender  of 
Christendom,  but  of  an  independent  free-booter,  who  as 
time  went  on  became  more  refined  and  religious  to  meet 
the  requirements  of  a  higher  civilization.  There  is  this 
essential  difference  between  the  first  great  national  expres- 
sions in  the  Roland  and  the  Poema  del  Cid.  To  the  Cid 
the  killing  of  Moors  is  only  an  occasional  incident  in  the 
securing  of  booty  (470f.,  498f.,  1236,  etc.).  When  it 
suits  his  purpose,  the  Cid  is  lenient  with  the  Moors.  When 
he  leaves  Casteion 

"Los  moros  y  las  moras  bendizienclol  estan"   (541). 

When  he  leaves  Alcoger,  the  Moors  exclaim 

"Vaste,  myo   Qid;    nuestras   oragiones   uayante   delaiite"    (853). 

One  of  the  most  sympathetic  of  the  secondary  characters 
in  the  poem  is  the  Moorish  king,  Avengaluon  of  Molina, 
a  useful  ally  of  the  Cid  throughout,  and  called  by  him,  with 
good  reason,  "myo  amigo  de  paz." 

It  is  not  unusual  to  find  Moors  and  Christians  fighting 
on  the  same  side:  as  when  Count  Remont  of  Barcelona 

^  Recherches  sur  I'histoire  et   la  litterature  de  VEspagne  pendant 
le  moyen  dge  (2d  ed.,  1860)   v.  II,  pp.  222,  223. 


278  WILLIAM  WISTAR  COMFORT. 

led  a  mixed  host  against  the  Cid  {Cid,  988),  when  Bernard 
del  Carpio  joined  with  Marsil(io),  king  of  Saragossa,  to 
defeat  the  Twelve  Peers  of  Charleniagiie  {Fernan  Gon- 
Qolez,  141),  and  when  Fernan  Gonzalez  reproves  Don 
Sancho  of  ISTavarre  for  having  in  the  past  allied  himself 
with  Moors  to  fight  Christians  {F.  G.,  288).  There  is 
just  a  suggestion  of  that  bitter  religious  competition 
familiar  in  the  French  epic  poems :  when  the  Cid,  after  his 
conquest  of  Valencia,  established  Jeronimo  (that  Spanish 
Turpin)  as  bishop  of  Valencia,  the  poet  says: 

"Dios,  que  alegre  era  todo  christianismo, 
Que  en  tierras  de  Valencia  senor  avie  obispo!"  {Cid,  1305-6). 

In  the  other  camp,  we  read  (1620)  of  how  Yucef,  king 
of  Morocco,  grieved  to  hear  of  the  victory  in  Valencia  of 
those  who  worship  "Jhesu  Christo."  But  we  suspect  these 
to  be  concessions  to  the  deepened  religious  convictions  of 
the  twelfth  century,  and  that  the  Cid  was  right  when  he 
thanked  the  Creator  for  his  victories  and  spoils  regardless 
of  the  reliffion  of  his  victims: 


"to' 


"Antes   fu   minguado,   agora  rico  so, 
Que  he  auer  3'  tierra  y  oro  y  onor, 
E  son  myos  yernos  yfantcs  de  Carrion; 
Moros  y  christianos  de  mi  lian  grant  pauor;    [Cid,  2494f.) 

The  point  upon  whicdi  we  would  insist,  then,  is  the 
matter-of-fact,  business-like  tone  which  is  employed  here 
in  speaking  of  the  Moors.  They  are  enemies,  of  another 
religion,  to  be  sure.  But  no  personal  hatred  is  expressed 
for  them,  no  religious  crusade  is  preached  against  them, 
and,  if  it  be  expedient,  alliance  with  them  is  winked  at. 
There  is  no  trace  here  of  that  bitterness  employed  by 
Ibn-Bassam,  the  Arab  writer  of  1109,  whom  Dozy  quotes,* 

*  Op.  cit.,  V.  II,  p.  7f . 


THE    MOOES    IN    SPANISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  279 

and  who  accompanies  every  mention  of  Alfonso  with  the 
hearty  exclamation :  "May  God  curse  him !" 

In  the  Poema  de  Fernan  Gonzalez  (1250  circ.)  we  feel 
a  distinct  advance  in  the  sentiment  of  Castilian  nationality 
and,  consequently,  in  the  hostility  toward  the  Moors. 
Though  we  are  still  following  the  career  of  an  individual 
hero,  we  realize  at  once  that  his  chief  claim  to  popularity 
rests  in  his  valor  against  the  Moors,  "la  gente  descreyda" 
(173,  174).  Indeed,  F.  G.  dedicates  himself  solemnly 
in  God's  name  to  the  reconquest  (184f.).  The  Moorish 
king,  Almozor  (i.  e.,  Almanzor  of  the  tenth  century,  and 
hence  not  really  a  contemporary  of  F.  G.),^  rallies  a  great 
host  to  fight  F.  G., — a  host  of  5,000  legions.  The  Cronica 
General^  is  more  conservative  with  its  allowance  of  seven 
legions  of  6,666  men  each  on  the  Moorish  side.  But  the 
exaggeration  of  the  enemy's  numbers  is  a  constant  trait, 
especially  in  the  French  heroic  poems,  and  is  used  to 
enhance  the  credit  of  the  Christians'  victories.  It  may 
be  added  that  the  mediaeval  audience  accepted  the  pro- 
portion of  ten  Saracens  to  one  Christian  as  about  the 
proper  odds  to  provide  an  interesting  fight.  In  the 
Spanish  poems,  where  the  Christians  are  counted  by  hun- 
dreds, the  Moors  are  rated  by  thousands;  and  in  the 
French  poems,  where  the  French  are  counted  by  thou- 
sands, the  Saracens  move  like  a  vast  horde: 

"Des  tentes  issent  aussi  espesement 
Come  li  pluie,  quant  le  cachent  li  vent." 

{Anse'is  von  Karthago,  6658-59) 

When  fighting  against  such  odds,  it  was  no  disgrace  to 
succumb;  to  win  was  sublime. 

The    religious    element    is    i)rominent    throughout    the 

'  Cf.  the  note  of  Professor  C.  C.  Marden  in  his  edition  of  the  poem. 
•  Ed.  of  Meneudez  Pidal,  p.  392. 


280  WILLIAM  WISTAK  COMFOET. 

Poema  de  Fernan  Gongalez,  and  brings  this  poem  well 
within  the  sphere  of  onr  observations  made  in  another 
place"  regarding  the  Saracens  in  the  chansons  de  geste. 
The  hero  is  supported  by  the  promises  of  God  made  through 
chosen  vessels,  and  upon  these  promises  he  rests  confident : 

"Alii  fue  demostrrado  el  poder  del  Mexyas, 
El  conde  fue  David  e  Almozor(re)   Golias"   (F.  G.,  267). 

After  this  great  victory  it  is  true  that  the  booty  is  still 
detailed  with  satisfaction  as  a  valuable  asset  5*  but  the 
Count  uses  his  share  in  endowing  the  Church,  as  he  had 
previously  promised  to  do  (278,  246f.). 

This  poem  contains  one  other  interesting  reference  to  the 
popular  estimation  of  the  Moors  as  enchanters  and  experts 
in  black  art.  Explaining  the  nature  of  a  fiery  serpent 
in  the  heavens,  whose  appearance  had  terrified  his  men, 
Fernan  Gonzalez  says: 

"Los  moros,  byen  sabedes,  (qiie)   se  guian  por  estrellas, 
Non  se  guian  por  Dios  que  se  guian  por  ellas, 
Otrro  Criador  nuevo  lian  fecho  ellos  dellas, 
Diz(en)   que  por  ellas  veen  muchas  de  maraui(e)  lias. 

A  y    (avn)    otrros  que  saben  niuchos  encantamentos, 
Fazen  niuy  malos  gestos  con  sus  esperamentos, 
De  rreuoluer  las  nuves  e   (de)   rreuoluer  los  \-yento3, 
Muestra  les  el  diablo  estos  entendymientos. 

AyA'ntan  los  diablos  con  sus  conjuramentos, 
Aliegan  se  con  ellos  e  fazen  sus  conventos, 
Dizen  de  los  pas (s) ados  todos  sus  fallimientos, 
Todos  fazen  congejo,  los  falsos  earvonientos. 

Algun  moro  astroso  que  sabe  encantar, 
Fyzo  aquel  diablo  en  syerpe  fygurar, 
Por  amor  que  podies(s)e  a  vos  (otrros)  (mal)  espantar, 

'  Vid.  Publications  of  the  Modern  Language  Association,  of  America, 
V.  XXI. 

•Plunder  by  the  Christians  is  but  rarely  mentioned  in  the  French 
and  Italian  poems.  Cf.,  ho^vever,  Les  Enfances  Ogier,  6899;  Geru- 
salemme  Liberata,  XIX,  52;  Mambriano,  XVII,  67f. :  XXXV. 


THE    MOORS    IN    SPANISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  281 

Con  este  tal  enganno  cuydaron   (se)   nos  tornar. 

Commo  sodes  sesudos  byen  podedes  saber 
Que  ellos  non  ban  poder  de  nml  a  nos  fazer, 
Qua  quite  les  don  Cristo  el  su  fuerte  poder, 
Veades  que  son  locos  los  que  lo  quicren  creer." 

F.  G.,  473-477. 

Here  the  Moors  are  represented  as  astrologers  iu  league 
with  the  devil,  who  has  tanght  them  his  arts,  but  of  which 
the  true  Christian  need  have  no  fear.  This  reputation 
of  the  mediaeval  Saracens  as  astrologers,  soothsayers,  or 
wizards  may  be  regarded  as  a  frequent,  though  not  greatly 
emphasized,  trait  in  popular  poetry.^  That  it  is  the  pale 
reflection  of  the  actual  superiority  of  tho  Arabs  in  the 
domain  of  the  natural  sciences  seems  probable.  To  this 
superiority  and  to  the  attitude  of  the  Church  toward 
Arab  learning  the  historians  of  Arab  civilization  have 
done  full  justice.  But  as  Schack,^''  D'Ancona,^^  Kenaii^^ 
and  others  have  remarked,  the  ignorance  of  the  Saracens' 
religion  displayed  by  the  mediaeval  Christians  is  monu- 
mental. It  is  difficult  for  us  to  conceive  how  such  gross 
misrepresentation  of  the  Infidels'  tenets  could  have  been 
accepted,  even  by  the  most  ignorant  of  the  Christian 
masses.  Leaving  aside  the  ecclesiastical  attitude  toward 
Mahometanism,  we  have  found  nothing  in  the  popular 
poetry  of  Spain  which  would  indicate  any  interest  in  or 
knowledge  of  the  religion  of  the  Moors.  If  the  popular 
poets  possessed  any  such  knowledge,  they  made  no  use 
of  it, — not  even  as  much  as  did  the  French  poets.^^     By 

•The  Saracen  magician  is  a  standard  character  in  the  Gcr.  Lib. 
and  in  the  Italian  court  epic  poems. 

19  Op.  cit.,  V.  II,  p.  92f. 

^''Giornalc  sforico  della  Lett,  ital.,  XIII.  pp.  192-281. 

"  Etudes  d'histoire  religieuse. 

"Cf.  Conronnement  de  Louis,  847f. ;  Floovani,  373;  Oaufrey,  3582; 
Aiol,  10090;    Conquete  de  Jerusalem,  5546. 


283  WILLIAM  WISTAR  COMFORT. 

way  of  compensation,  in  the  Spanish  poems  there  is  no 
ridiculous  talk  about  the  Saracens'  gods  and  idols,  such 
as  Apolin,  Cahu,  Tervagan,  Diana,  Mahom  and  the  rest. 
Beside  Allah,  Mahomet  alone  is  mentioned,  and  is  regarded 
not  as  one  of  the  grotesque  fraternity  just  mentioned,  but 
as  the  counterpart  of  the  Christians'  Messiah, — a  prophet 
of  God.  Usually  devoted  to  Mahomet  and  his  cause,  the 
Saracen  is  often  represented  by  the  Christian  poets  as 
disgusted  with  his  Mahomet  and  disappointed  with  his 
protection.  For  instance,  after  Almozor  had  lost  the  bat- 
tle to  Fernan  Gonzalez,  he  exclaims:  "Alas,  Mahomet,  in 
an  evil  hour  did  I  trust  in  thee.  All  thy  power  is  not 
worth  three  beans."^^  With  this  compare  the  outbreak 
of  pagan  fury  against  their  idols  described  in  the  Roland 
(2580-91)  and  in  Fierahras  (p.  156).  This  puerile  doubt 
ill  tlie  efficacy  of  their  gods  must  have  been  introduced 
for  a  humorous  purpose,  to  contrast  with  the  abiding  faith 
of  the  mediaeval  Christian  in  his  God  of  battles. 

To  conclude,  the  religious  element  in  the  strife  between 
Christian  and  Saracen  comes  out  in  the  French  far  more 
than  in  the  Spanish  narrative  poems.  From  the  Roland 
on  till  the  close  of  the  epic  period,  the  French  poet  puts 
religion  in  the  foreground ;  for  conversions  and  argument 
on  religious  beliefs  between  hostile  warriors  there  is  always 
room  in  the  most  animated  narrative.^'*  Before  the 
promise  of  conversion  the  avenging  arm  of  the  French 
falls.  The  things  of  the  Spirit  are  given  the  first  chance. 
In  Spain  there  is  little  to  indicate  any  altruistic  religious 
interest  on  the  part  of  the  Christians.  We  may  doubt  if 
there  were   actually  any  such  interest  during  the  early 

"P'.  G.,  268. 

"Cf.  Roland,  3661-74;  Mainct  in  Romania,  IV,  p.  330;  Cour.  de 
Louis,  847f.;  AUscans,  1223-27;  Enf.  Ogier,  4453-56;  Chev.  Ogier, 
11316-21. 


THE    MOORS    IN    SPANISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  283 

centuries  of  the  Moorish  occupation,  when  the  Christians 
were  in  the  minority.  After  the  taking  of  Granada  in 
1492,  history  tells  us  of  the  strenuous  endeavors  of  the 
State  egged  on  by  the  Church  to  coerce  the  Moorish  popu- 
lation to  an  empty  conversion.^ ^  But  even  in  the  romances 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  as  we  shall  see,  the  religious  note 
is  lacking.  We  suspect  that  the  living  religious  enthusiasm 
bred  by  the  Crusades,  in  which  the  French  j^layed  so 
much  larger  a  part  than  did  the  Spaniards,  may  explain 
this  difference  in  attitude.  In  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries,  when  the  highly  civilized  French  nation  con- 
sidered itself  in  a  position  to  dictate  to  the  Saracen  foe  in 
the  East,  the  Spaniards  were  still  fighting  for  their  exist- 
ence on  the  frontera.  If  one  may  risk  the  remark,  we 
should  say  that  the  Spaniards  from  actual  experience  know 
far  more  of  wdiat  they  are  speaking  when  they  introduce 
the  Moors  in  their  early  poetry,  but  that  they  saw  nothing 
in  the  subject  w^orthy  of  description  or  amplification.  The 
French,  with  far  less  actual  knowledge,  made  of  the 
Saracen  an  Infidel  chevalier,  and  personified  in  him  the 
idealized  opposition  to  themselves  in  the  "lutte  de  I'Europe 
chretiemie  sous  I'hegemonie  de  la  France." ^^  The  Italian 
poets  took  over  this  conception  in  toto,  while  introducing 
into  the  treatment  many  traits  of  levity  and  romance. 
The  Spanish  poems  reflect  an  actual  state  of  affairs,  with 
the  Christians  fighting  for  their  fire-sides,  Avith  expediency 
and  compromise  as  counters  in  the  game;  the  French  and 
Italian  poems  reflect  an  ideal  strife  between  Christendom 
and  Paganism,  in  which  compromise  with  principle  has 
no  place,  and  where  the  extermination  of  heresy  is  the 
ultimate  goal. 

"Cf.  H.  C.  Lea,  The  Moriscos. 

"  Gaston  Paris,  Histoire  poetique  de  Charlemagne,  p.  16. 


284  WILLIAM  WISTAK  COMFOKT. 

The  practical  realism  of  the  Spanish  treatment  of  the 
Moors  in  the  historical  poems,  and  the  poetic  idealism  of 
the  French  treatment  of  the  Saracens,  is  explained  by 
the  historical  relations  of  these  peoples.  This  fact  should 
be  borne  in  mind  by  anyone  who  reads  these  pages.  The 
French  were  freed  from  any  imminent  danger  of  invasion 
by  the  Saracens  at  an  early  date.  In  onr  period  they  did 
not  know  as  a  nation  what  the  African  peril  was.  We 
should  see  the  romantic  side  of  their  relations  with  the 
Infidels  finding  expression  at  a  comparatively  early  date. 
The  Spaniards  until  within  two  centuries  still  knew  the 
danger  of  the  Berbery  corsairs  at  their  very  ports.  ISTot 
until  they  had  gained  a  heavy  upper  hand  in  the  fifteenth 
and  the  sixteenth  centuries  do  we  note  the  lenient  and 
romantic  literary  treatment  of  the  Moors  and  Moriscos 
invading  the  romances.  The  struggle  for  existence  is  then 
passed,  and  the  Christian  poets  can  afford  to  use  for  artistic 
purposes  the  faded  orientalism  of  the  western  Caliphate. 

As  bearing  upon  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  century 
knowledge  concerning  the  Saracens,  a  word  is  in  order 
as  to  their  geographical  distribution  and  their  physical 
characteristics  according  to  the  popular  poets.  The 
Spanish  poems,  as  we  should  expect,  have  the  Moors  dis- 
tributed with  due  regard  to  the  facts.  The  topography  of 
the  wars  of  reconquest  is  observed  in  the  heroic  poetry 
with  sufficient  exactness  to  make  comparison  with  historical 
records  interesting  and  profitable.  The  Poema  del  Cid 
and  the  Poema  de  Fernan  Gongalez  are  as  full  of  topog- 
raphy as  the  Cronica  General  is  full  of  dates.  Whether 
tlie  enemy  be  called  Moros,  Moriscos,  Aldrahes,  Turcos, 
Sarricenos  or  Berheriscos,  the  Spanish  poets  of  all  ages 
know  pretty  well  what  they  are  talking  about,  and  present 
their  enemies  Avithin  proper  geographical  limits.     What 


THE    MOORS    I^r    SPANISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  285 

extravagant  notions  the  French  popular  poets  entertained 
of  the  origin  and  whereabouts  of  the  Saracens  it  is  hardly 
necessary  to  tell.  Anyone  who  has  read  any  mediaeval 
French  narrative  literature  will  have  given  up  the  fruit- 
less task  of  identifying  the  names  of  Pagan  peoples  and 
countries.  In  this  confusion  the  Roland  leads  off  witli  a 
score  of  names  before  which  tlie  most  zealous  speculation 
retreats  in  confusion.  Who  are  les  Ormalois,  les  Leus, 
les  Eugles,  les  SoUras?^^  Where  are  Yalpenuse,  Occiant 
la  deserte,  Balide-la-FoHe,  Floredee?  As  to  many  of 
the  other  places  and  peoples  mentioned  and  which  have 
been  identified  {(),  it  may  be  safely  said  that  the  modern 
scholars  know  far  more  about  them  than  did  the  mediaeval 
poet.  As  time  went  on,  confusion  became  worse  con- 
founded. The  one  desire  of  the  poet,  as  Professor  Geddes 
has  said,  is  "to  name  the  peoples  who  have  terrorized 
Christian  Europe  during  the  last  centuries." ^^  Thus  we 
find  masquerading  as  Saracens  the  Saxons,-^  the  ISTor- 
mans,^^  the  Danes,^^  and  the  Albigenses.^^ 

As  to  the  individual,  there  is  no  attempt  in  early  Spanish 
verse  to  describe  him  either  seriously  or  grotesquely.  The 
great  crowd  of  Africans  who  arrive  at  Almozor's  summons 
after  his  first  defeat  offers  a  fine  chance  for  such  descrip- 
tion (F.  G.,  383,  384).  Their  equipment  is  described  in 
this  place,  as  so  frequently  in  the  later  romances;  but  not 
a  Pagan  in  the  vast  host  stands  out  so  that  we  can  see 

"Les  Enfances  Ogicr  (1275  circ.)  offers  a  somewhat  more  recog- 
nizable assortment  of  Saracen  peoples:  Turs,  Persant,  Arrabis, 
Esclers,  cil  de  Barbarie,  Achopars,  Esclavons,  Aufricans,  Arragons. 

'^Geddes,  La  Chanson  de  Roland  (1906),  p.  223. 

'"In  the  Chanson  des  Saisnes. 

"  In  Aquin  and  Le  Roi  Louis. 

'■"  In  Chronique  de  Phil.  Mouskes. 

"  In  Oar  in  de  Montglane. 


286  WILLIAM  WISTAR  COMFORT. 

him.  And  why  should  the  poet  describe  the  dark-skinned 
peoples  ?  All  his  audience  had  seen  them.  There  was  no 
exotic  charm  for  the  Spaniard  in  an  African  complexion. 
He  wanted  events,  not  portraits.  But  in  France,  where 
neither  the  poet  nor  the  audience  had  ever  seen  a  Saracen, 
a  loose  rein  was  given  to  the  trouvere's  fancy.  Conse- 
quently, we  have  such  delightfully  naive  portraits  as  those 
of  the  Roland  (1217  ;  1917-19  ;  1932-34),  Les  Narlonnais 
(3803-8),  Gaufrey  (p.  90),  and  Couronnement  de  Louis 
(504-510).  In  these  latter  a  purely  conventional  portrait 
of  bigness,  blackness  and  fierceness  has  been  evolved  as 
a  grotesque  embellishment  of  the  poem.  Without  falling 
into  this  comical  exaggeration,  the  French  poets  were 
incapable  of  depicting  the  Saracen  warrior  in  any  different 
guise  from  that  of  the  Christian  knight.  He  fought  in 
the  same  way,  his  standards  of  conduct  were  the  same. 
The  poet  knew  no  type  of  warrior  except  that  which  he 
saw  about  him ;  so  he  contented  himself  vrith  crj'ing  of 
a  sympathetic  Saracen  hero: 

"Deus!   quels  vassals,  s'  oilst  chrestientet!" 

Roland,  3164. 

After  having  remarked  the  very  slight  artistic  use  made 
of  the  Moors  in  the  two  great  heroic  poems  of  mediaeval 
Spain,  we  turn  next  to  the  roinances,  or  popular  ballads, 
composed,  as  we  have  them,  from  the  fifteenth  to  the 
seventeenth  century.  Few  questions  are  more  intricate 
than  the  origin  of  many  of  these  romances.  They  have 
been  variously  classified:  chronologically  according  to 
their  supposed  antiquity,  chronologically  according  to  the 
antiquity  of  the  subjects  of  which  they  treat,  and  thirdly 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  genre, — such  as  historical, 
romantic,  chevaleresque,  burlesque,  etc.     In  any  system 


THE    MOORS    IN    SPANISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  28'7 

of  arrangement  many  escape  from  all  categories  and 
remain  without  any  certain  indication  of  tlieir  pedigree. 
We  may,  however,  summarize  what  has  been  written  as 
to  the  development  of  the  romances.  There  are  three 
great  periods  of  bloom.  The  first  dates  from  the  earliest 
expression  of  the  Spanish  people  in  the  vulgar  tongue, 
when  ballads  were  sung  by  the  people  and  for  the  people. 
This  period  closed  before  1200,  and  from  it  we  have  no 
remains  except  as  they  are  incorporated  in  later  and  more 
artistic  poetry  and  in  the  prose  chronicles.  The  second 
period  is  that  of  the  popular  poets, — the  juglares  by  pro- 
fession, who  sang  for  the  people  in  more  ambitious  strain 
the  same  songs  of  national  heroes.  To  these  were  added, 
without  much  regard  for  chronology  or  congruity,  subjects 
borrowed  from  the  '^matiere  de  France,"  the  ''matiere 
de  Bretag-ne,"  and  the  "matiere  de  Rome  la  grant."  This 
period  includes  the  fifteenth  century  and  represents  a 
rich  midway  stage  between  the  really  popular  expression 
of  the  first  period  and  the  thoroughly  artificial  and  con- 
ventional ballad  poetry  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth 
centuries.  In  this  last  period,  where  we  meet  the  work 
of  Sepulveda,  Laso  de  la  Vega,  Timoneda,  and  even 
Gongora,  cultivated  society  has  taken  up  the  old  popular 
material  and  clothed  it  now  in  a  new  travestied  dress,  now 
in  a  dress  of  pseudo-antiquity  which  it  is  not  always 
easy  to  distinguish  from  the  genuine  article.  The  great 
anonymous  ballad  collections  of  1510,  1550  and  1593  con- 
tain the  meat  of  this  period,  to  which  must  be  added  the 
artistic  imitations  and  the  rifacimenti  of  such  poets  as 
have  just  been  mentioned. 

From  Duran's  enormous  collection  of  almost  two  thou- 
sand romances  in  his  Romancero  General  of  1849,  it 
requires  an  internal  criticism  of  exceptional  competence 


288  WILLIAM  WISTAK  COMFORT. 

to  cull  with  any  certainty  those  poems  which  are  essentially 
popular,  and  to  distinguish  them  from  those  that  are 
tainted  by  subjectivity  and  art.  Ticknor  says  of  the 
romances:  "Few  can  be  found  alluding  to  known  events 
or  to  personages  that  occur  before  the  period  immediately 
preceding  the  fall  of  Granada ;  and  even  in  these  few  the 
proofs  of  a  more  recent  and  Christian  character  are 
abundant."^^  Wolf,  too,  maintains  that  the  surest 
antiquity  may  be  claimed  for  those  relating  to  wars  with 
the  Moors  during  the  second  half  of  the  fifteenth  century ; 
and,  though  these  contain  features  which  go  back  to  early 
times,  they  hardly  antedate  in  their  present  form  the 
sixteenth  century.'^  We  have  hesitated  over  what  method 
to  pursue  in  bringing  the  Moors  into  the  foreground  from 
this  vast  body  of  material  where  they  occur  at  every  step. 
Duran's  division,  painstaking  and  conscientious  though  it 
bo,  helps  us  little  for  our  present  purpose.  W^e  have 
decided  at  last  to  adopt  what  is  perhaps  the  most  evident 
plan :  that  is,  to  study  the  Moors  first  in  the  poems  where 
they  are  only  incidental,  and  then  to  take  up  the  great 
body  of  poems  in  which  they  are  the  chief  dramalis  per- 
sonae.  After  the  adoption  of  this  division,  it  was  found 
that  the  romances  divide  themselves  chronologically  upon 
somewhat  the  same  lines.  That  is,  that  the  ballads  in 
which  the  Moors  are  incidentally  treated  are  relatively 
early  and  have  some  pretentions  to  historic  reliability, 
while  those  which  present  the  Moors  as  an  end  in  them- 
selves are  late,  artificial  and  romantic.  These  last  will 
appropriately  conclude  our  study  with  some  interesting 
evidence  bearing  upon  the  ultimate  invasion  of  Spanish 

"  History  of  Spanish  Literature,  v.  I,  p.  156. 

^' Cf.  Sludien  zur  GescJiichte  der  spanischen  und  portuguesischen 
Literaiur,  pp.  469,  460. 


THE    MOORS    IN    SPANISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  289 

lyric  poetry  by  the  exaggerations  of  that  Orientalismus 
which  was  the  Moors'  revenge  for  their  banishment  from 
Spain. 

The  oldest  romatices,  at  least  in  their  inspiration  if  not 
in  their  final  version,  are  those  of  the  reconquest,  such  as 
those  dealing  with  the  Cid,  Fernan  Gonzalez,  Bernardo 
del  Carpio  and  the  Seven  Infantes  de  Lara, — all  standard 
subjects  of  popular  verse  for  centuries.  In  them  we  find 
all  the  essential  facts  narrated,  as  borrowed  from  earlier 
ballads  and  from  the  lengthy  cronicas  which  stand  in  such 
close  relation  to  the  romances.  In  most  of  these  ballads 
the  attention  is  fixed  upon  the  Spanish  hero,  and  the 
Moors  are  only  incidentally  introduced.  Hence,  we  find 
in  them  little  to  add  to  the  primitive  evidence  already 
presented.  The  under-current  of  religious  hostility  is 
still  upset  by  the  exigencies  of  politics  and  expediency. 
Christians  and  Moors  mingle  fraternally  in  battle  against 
some  common  enemy.  Courteous  and  chivalric  attentions 
are  shown  to  distinguished  representatives  of  the  opposite 
faith.  Examples  of  conversions  become  more  frequent, 
and  the  rift  of  religious  separation  becomes  at  times 
well  defined  as  an  actual  factor  in  the  life  of  the  nation 
and  of  the  individual.  A  few  instances  of  this  evolution 
may  be  noted.  They  may  be  the  literary  reflection  of 
that  increasing  confidence  and  didactic  tone  affected  by 
the  Spaniards  about  1500  toward  their  weakening  oppo- 
nents. When  Mudarra,  the  bastard  brother  of  the  Infantes 
de  Lara  and  the  son  of  Count  Gonzalo  Gustios  grows  up 
and  is  told  of  the  family  tragedy  by  his  Moorish  mother : 

"Mudarra    se  baptiz6. 
Criatiano  tornado  habla." 

(No.  693,  attrib.  to  Sepfllveda). 

19 


290  WILLIAM  WISTAR  COMFORT. 

In  the  Cid's  last  testament,  wliicli  is  a  late  poem,  he 
makes  a  bequest  to 

"Gil  Diaz  tornadizo, 
Que   de   nioro   &   Dios   volviOse."      (No.   896.) 

We  are  saved  an  excursion  afield  by  the  Cid  in  a  six- 
teenth century  ballad,  when  he  politely  refuses  to  visit 
the  Sultan  of  Persia  because  the  latter  is  a  Pagan,  He 
says  to  the  messenger: 

"  'Si  tu  Eey  fuera  cristiano 

Fuera  yo  a  verle  &  su  tierra.' "        (No.  891.) 

It  is  a  narrow  escape,  but  happily  the  condition  imposed 
was  sufficient  to  deter  him  from  the  expedition.  These 
are  but  typical  of  many  instances  where  the  religious  dis- 
tinction is  touched  upon  in  individual  cases. 

Intercourse  between  the  sexes  when  separated  by  religion 
seems  to  have  been  forbidden  as  a  theory,  just  as  it  is 
throughout  the  French  epic  poems.  Two  notable  passages 
dealing  with  historical  personages  may  be  quoted,  though 
they  are  of  late  composition.  Alfonso  the  Fifth  of  Leon 
gives  his  sister  in  marriage  to  King  Audalla  of  Toledo 
against  her  will,  in  return  for  aid  against  other  Moorish 
kings.  But  she  forbids  her  new  spouse  to  approach 
her:  "I  tell  you  you  shall  not  approach  me,  because  I  am 
a  Christian  and  you  a  Moor,  of  another  religion  very 
different  from  mine.  I  care  not  for  your  company,  and 
the  sight  of  you  gives  me  no  pleasure.  If  you  lay  hands 
on  me  and  from  you  I  suffer  dishonor,  the  angel  of  Jesus 
Christ  will  strike  your  body  with  his  trenchant  sword" 
(Xo.  721).  In  the  ballad  the  king  disregards  her  wishes, 
ia  smitten  with  the  plague,  and  returns  her  to  her  country, 
where  she  becomes  a  nun.  Strange  as  this  story  may 
sound  in  its  late  pious  setting.  Dozy  has  found  the  historic 


THE    MOORS    IN    SPANISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  291 

basis  for  it  in  tlie  tenth  century."'^  Gabriel  Lobo  Laso 
de  la  Vega  has  treated  auother  episode  in  which  figure 
Alfonso  the  Sixth  and  the  beautiful  Zaida,  daughter  of  the 
king  of  Seville.  Zaida,  who  has  fallen  in  love  with 
Alfonso  by  hearsay,  is  determined  to  marry  him.  In 
reply  to  her  ardent  addresses  the  Christian  king  replied 
^'tliat  he  could  not  marry  her,  because  his  religion  forbade 
him  to  do  what  she  requested;  but  that  if  she  would  give 
up  her  own  faith  for  a  better  one,  he  would  accept  her." 
This  the  Moorish  maid  consented  to  do,  for  one  who  loves 
knows  no  law.  She  became  a  Christian  with  great  cere- 
mony, and  became  queen  of  Castillo,  whom  afterward  they 
called  the  great  Christian  Mary  (No.  913).  This  con- 
version of  Saracen  women  had  become  a  constant  trait 
of  romance  after  the  doctrine  of  all-conquering  love  was 
firmly  established  in  European  literature.  In  admitting 
it,  the  poets  were  far  enough  from  the  facts,  and  we  should 
be  tempted  to  say  that  it  is  a  sure  mark  of  late  composition, 
did  we  not  recall  Charlemagne's  solicitude  in  the  Roland 
for  the  conversion  of  Bramimunde,  the  captive  wife  of 
Marsile.  (Roland,  3673-74).  The  later  French  poems 
show  very  artistic  use  of  these  international  unions,  post- 
poned only  until  the  happy  conversion  and  baptism  of  the 
Saracen  maid  can  be  effected  (cf.  Guillaume  and  Orable 
in  the  Prise  d' Orange,  Aiol  and  Mirabel  in  Aiol,  Elie  and 
Rosamonde  in  Elie  de  Baint-Gille,  Berart  and  Flordepine 
in  Gaufrey,  Gui  and  Floripas  in  Fierabras,  and  Gerart 
and  Malatrie  in  Beuves  de  Commarcis). 

The  religious  reconquest  of  the  Moorish  territory  is 
more  than  once  referred  to,  as  it  was  cursorily  in  the 
Poema  del  Cid  (see  above).  When  under  the  reign  of 
Alfonso  the  Sixth  the  city  of  Toledo  was  taken,  the  Chris- 

^Op.  cif.,  V.  I.,  p.  205. 


292  WILLIAM  WISTAR  COMFORT. 

tians  proceed  to  convert  the  Moorish  mezquita  into  a 
church  again.  This  they  do  by  "cleansing  it  of  false 
rites,  rededicating  it  to  God,  and  celebrating  Mass"  under 
the  new  archbishop   (Xo.  911).      (Cf.  No.  931). 

But  alongside  of  such  traits  as  these  which  possess 
a  certain  color  of  historic  reliability  stand  others  of  a 
purely  romantic  nature.  Even  the  so-called  historic 
ballads,  dealing  with  the  national  heroes,  early  fell  under 
the  romantic  influence.  The  Moors  commence  to  appear 
in  an  ever  more  romantic  light.  For  example,  when  the 
Cid  was  at  Valencia,  King  Bucar  comes  and  makes  love 
to  Urraca,  the  Cid's  daughter.  The  Cid  bids  his  daughter 
detain  Bucar  in  suitable  converse  until  he  can  come  and 
administer  the  chastisement  which  such  temerity  deserves 
(No.  858).  When,  after  the  Cid's  death,  the  Christians 
sally  forth  from  Valencia  to  fight  Bucar,  in  front  of  the 
Moorish  host  they  fall  in  with  a  female  warrior  at  the 
head  of  a  hundred  companions  like  her: 

"Una  mora  muy  gallarda, 
Gran  maestra  en  el  tirar 
Con  saetas  del  aljaba 
De  los  arcos  de  Turquia ; 
Estrella  era  nombrada 
Por  la  destreza  que  habfa 
En  el  herir  de  la  jara.""       (Xo.  901.) 

Elsewhere  we  find  the  romantic  element  softening  the 
couA^entionally  hostile  relations  between  the  two  people. 
The  Master  of  Calatrava,  for  example,  assists  a  Moor  of 
Granada  to  elope  with  his  lady-love  who  was  betrothed  to 
another  (Nos.  1096-99).  Again,  that  Don  Manuel  Ponce 
de  Leon,  who  was  the  doughty  champion  of  many  a  single 

"  The  female  Saracen  warrior  became  a  regular  romantic  feature  of 
the  Italian  poems. 


THE    MOOES    IN    SPANISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  293 

duel  upon  the  frontier,  released  liis  defeated  Moorish  oppo- 
nent in  order  that  the  latter  might  join  his  sweetheart 
(ISTo.  1134).  In  hoth  cases  the  sympathy  for  a  lover 
outweighs  the  prescribed  attitude  which  called  for  the 
speedy  beheading  of  the  Moor.  These  instances  are  but 
straws  which  show  the  turn  of  treatment  bestowed  upon 
the  Moors  in  the  so-called  historical  ballads.  It  is  only 
with  general  tendencies  that  we  are  concerned,  and  to 
multiply  quotations  is  needless.  As  Duran  has  noted, 
there  is  no  essential  difference  between  his  late  historical 
ballads  and  the  romances  moriscos  novelescos  to  which  we 
shall  presently  come.  The  latter  certainl}^  affected  the 
former.  Indeed,  the  same  known  poets  wrote  both  kinds, 
and  the  historical  ballads  are  only  historical  in  so  far  as 
they  mention  historic  characters  upon  one  side  or  the  other. 
In  spirit  they  are  identical  wath  the  avowedly  romantic 
Moorish  ballads  in  which  the  Moorish  characters  and 
colors  furnish  the  whole  interest.  Before  leaving  the 
historical  ballads  it  should  be  added  that  in  their  last  period 
of  bloom  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century  they  still 
present  the  Spanish  sovereigns  Charles  the  Fifth  and 
Philip  the  Second  in  their  historic  struggle  with  the  Turks 
in  eastern  Europe  and  with  the  corsairs  upon  the  sea. 
These  last  ballads  are  simple  history  in  poetic  form,  and 
add  nothing  to  what  has  been  said  regarding  the  literary 
presentation  of  the  Moors.  They  lead  directly  to  the  classic 
period  of  the  Spanish  drama  in  the  seventeenth  century, 
where  we  still  find  the  Moors  playing  their  ancient  role, 
now  treated  historically,  now  romantically. 

We  come  now  to  the  ballads  in  which  the  centre  of 
interest  shifts  from  the  Christians  to  the  Moors.  Duran 
includes  243  of  this  class  in  his  first  volume,  and  calls 
them  romances  moriscos  novelescos.     Though  some  of  these 


294  WILLIAM  WISTAK  COMFORT. 

date  from  the  fifteenth,  century,  the  great  majority  date 
from  the  sixteenth  century.  Most  of  them  are  anonymous, 
but  the  work  of  Sepiilveda,  Padilla,  Laso  de  la  Vega, 
Encina,  Lucas  Rodriguez,  and  even  of  Gongora  is  well  rep- 
resented in  this  class.  They  show  forth  that  literary 
tolerance  and  sympathy  for  the  conquered  people  which  is 
far  from  being  equally  manifested  in  the  historic  treat- 
ment of  the  scattered  Moriscos  by  Church  and  State. 

Here  war  is  only  in  the  background,  useful  as  a  chance 
for  the  Moorish  braves  to  exhibit  their  prowess  and  honors, 
as  in  a  tournament,  to  be  laid  at  the  feet  of  their  ladies. 
Indeed,  Avar  has  now  passed  into  the  tournament  stage. 
The  array  of  one  people  against  another,  so  familiar  in 
the  French  epic  and  in  the  Italian  poems,  has  no  counter- 
part here.  We  still  hear  at  intervals  of  battles  and  sieges 
of  frontier  towns,  but  the  religious  interest  is  out  of  it. 
The  scene  is  described  from  the  stand-point  of  the  indi- 
vidual warrior,  and  the  assets  of  victory  are  reckoned  in 
terms  of  love.  "We  find  a  mixture  of  European  chivalry 
with  a  graft  of  oriental  coloring  and  Moorish  names 
which  at  least  sound  historical.  That  lamentable  strife 
in  Granada  between  the  two  great  factions  of  the  Aben- 
cerrajes  and  the  Cegries  finds  its  echo  all  through  this 
group  of  ballads.  Many  are  the  fierce  jealousies  and 
hatreds,  the  plots  and  deeds  of  violence  which  so  tore 
the  Moors  apart  that  they  became  a  prey  for  the  Christian 
enemv,  ever  more  consolidated.  The  men  are  shown 
fighting  or  love-making;  the  women  appear  a  prey  to  the 
passion  of  love  or  jealousy.  The  women  reprove  the  men 
for  cowardice  as  warriors,  or  for  boasters  as  lovers;  the 
men  berate  the  women  for  their  fickleness.  The  love  pas- 
sion is  depicted  as  all-absorbing.  ISTo  division  of  favors 
is  tolerated.     No  suggestion  of  oriental  polygamy  is  to 


THE    MOOKS    IN    SPAJSTISH    POPULAR    POETRY.  295 

be  found.  ^^  One  must  be  off  with  the  old  before  one  is  on 
with  the  new.  The  lovers  communicate  over  the  bal- 
conies, or,  Avhen  separated,  by  letters.  That  extreme  sus- 
ceptibility and  suspicion  wbicli  mark  the  love  passion 
among  the  hot-blooded  races  is  everywhere  uppermost. 
Yet  there  is  nowhere  a  suggestion  of  the  carnal,  which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  of  the  Italian  romances.  The 
relation  between  the  sexes  before  marriage  is  altogether 
above  reproach.  What  these  rites  of  marriage  are,  we  are 
not  told.  The  disposal  of  the  woman  is  in  the  hands  of 
her  father  or  of  the  king.  To  interfere  with  the  wishes 
of  the  king  entails  banishment  from  the  court  and  exposure 
of  the  lovers  to  all  the  pains  and  torments  of  enforced 
separation. 

Inasmuch  as  these  romantic  ballads  deal  chiefly  with 
the  period  of  the  frontier  wars,  the  taking  of  Granada 
and  the  occasional  early  insurrections  of  the  Moriscos, 
the  taking  of  captives  is  frequently  mentioned.  The 
beauty  of  the  ballads  dealing  with  the  Christian  Moriana 
and  the  Moor  Galvan  are,  perhaps,  the  most  artistic 
and  among  the  oldest  of  the  genre.  The  setting  of  the 
game  of  drafts  between  the  rich  Moor  and  his  unwilling 
captive  is  in  the  best  ballad  style: 

"Moriana  en  im  Castillo 
Juega  con  el   more   Galvane; 
Juegan  los  dos  a  las  tablas 
Por   mayor  placer  tomare. 
Cada  vez  qu'ol  moro  pierde 
Bien  perdfa  una  cibdade; 

**We  can  recall  no  reference  in  popular  literature  to  polygamy 
among  the  Saracens,  except  that  in  the  Chanson  d'Antioche  V,  42, 
where  the  crusade  against  the  Christians  is  preached: 

"  'Bien  peut  avoir  dis  femes  cil  qui  or  cine  en  a, 
On  quinze  ou  vint  ou  trente,  ou  tout  com  lui  plaira.' " 


296  WILLIAM  WISTAK  COMFOET. 

Cuando  Moriana  pierde 

La  niano  le  da  a  besare. 

Del  placer  qu'el  moro  toma 

Adormescido  se  cae. 

Por  aquellos  altos  montes 

Caballero  vio  asoinare: 

Llorando  viene  y  gimiendo, 

Las  Unas  corriendo  sangre 

De  aniores  de  Moriana 

Hija  del  rev  ]Moriane. 

Captivaronla  los  inoros 

La  maiiana  de  Sant  Juane, 

Cogiendo  rosas  y  flores 

En  la  liuerta  de  su  padre."         (No.  7.) 

Exterior  description,  indeed,  is  the  special  charm  of  the 
Moorish  romances  J  rather  than  any  light  they  throw  upon 
the  personal  character  of  the  Moors.  The  coloring,  so 
long  as  it  is  not  overdone,  is  very  pleasing,  and  helps  ns 
to  people  in  imagination  the  groves  and  gardens  of 
Granada,  the  courts  and  baths  of  the  Alhambra  and  Gen- 
eralife,  the  banks  of  the  Genii  and  the  green  stretches  of 
the  great  vega.  Is  it  asserting  too  much,  to  say  that  the 
Moorish  joy  in  Nature's  beauty  happily  inspired  the 
Spanish  poets,  sons  of  a  harsher  clime,  and  gave  them 
an  inheritance  of  feeling  for  the  out-door  world  which 
succeeding  generations  of  Spanish  lyrists  have  never  lost  ? 

There  is,  then,  no  essential  difference  between  the 
Moorish  ballads  and  the  contemporary  ballads  dealing  with 
other  personages,  save  the  oriental  coloring  conventionally 
employed  in  the  former.  Tournaments,  duels,  love-mak- 
ing with  the  inevitable  quarrels  and  reconciliations, — all 
these  developed  that  pundonor  among  the  Moors  of  the 
ballads  as  among  the  Spaniards.  At  a  time  when  the 
Moriscos  were  leading  a  sorry  existence  in  exile  from 
their  old  homes,  the  Spanish  poets  were  representing  them 
as  riding  about  on  proud  chargers,   adorned  with  orna- 


THE   MOORS  IN  SPANISH   POPULAK  POETRY.  297 

mented  armor,  courting  their  sweetliearts,  and  vowing 
their  nndying  devotion  in  a  setting  of  oriental  wealth  and 
inagnihcence.  The  whole  thing  is  artificial,  conventional, 
and  contrary  to  the  real  estate  of  the  Moors,  as  the  Chris- 
tian poets  must  have  very  well  known. 

The  question  arises,  then,  why  did  the  Spaniards  make 
out  the  Moors  to  be  leading  a  chivalrous  existence  in  the 
sixteenth  century  just  like  themselves  ?  As  Duran  has 
pointed  out,  it  became  a  conventional  trick  of  such  poets  as 
we  have  mentioned  to  sing  their  loves  in  oriental  imagery. 
The  Fatimas,  the  Zaidas,  the  Vindarajas,  the  Boabdils, 
the  Zaides,  the  Audallas,  Gazuls  and  Tarfes  of  this  poetry 
stand  for  the  less  romantic  names  of  the  actual  Christian 
lovers.  The  situation  is  in  no  wise  different,  nor  is  any 
effort  made  to  differentiate  the  exterior  of  the  personages. 
The  vogue  for  Moorish  scenery  and  local  color  had  come 
in  with  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  as  the 
Moorish  peril  had  ceased  to  be  a  constant  threat  within 
the  country.  This  is  not  the  place  to  mention  individual 
ballads  of  great  beauty.  But  it  may  be  stated  in  a  general 
way  that  this  numerous  class  of  romantic  Moorish  ballads 
yields  us  no  matter  for  this  study  beyond  the  totally 
false  historical  aspect  under  which  the  Moors  are  por- 
trayed. If  the  Spanish  poets  tried  to  do  so,  they  failed 
to  give  us  the  domestic  and  intimate  life  of  the  Moors 
among;  themselves.  Take  away  the  Moorish  names  and 
the  conventional  colors  of  oriental  chivalry,  and  we  have 
left  the  Spaniards  of  the  comedias  de  capa  y  espada.  The 
constantly  recurring  words  in  the  Moorish  romances  are 
the  identical  ear-marks  of  the  later  Spanish  comedias: 
celos,  penas,  pundonor,  cuidados,  contentos,  retratos,  etc. 

One  is  surprised  that  the  n\ysterious  life  of  the  harem 
had  no  charm  for  the  Christian  poets.     As  has  been  said, 


298  WILLIAM  WISTAR  COMFOKT. 

there  is  no  attempt  to  describe  it.  The  Moorish  women 
deport  themselves  exactly  as  their  Christian  sisters.  They 
employ  their  time  in  making  favors  for  their  lovers,  in 
discussing  their  merits,  in  writing  love-notes,  in  quarreling 
and  making  up.  They  are  even  fair  of  hair  and  Avhite  of 
skin, — a  fact  which  shows  how  completely  the  conven- 
tional Spanish  type  of  beauty  was  imposed  upon  the  Moors. 
A  Moor  sings  of  his  lady : 

"Ay  bella  Soitana  mia ! 
Ay  mi  rostro  delicado! 
Ay  bellos   cabellos   de  oro, 
Que  me  tienen  enlazado!"  (No.  165.) 

The  three  most  beautiful  maidens  in  Granada  are  thus 
described : 

"Tiene  F&tima  en  los  ojos 
Paralsos  de  las  almas, 

Y  en  sus  rubios  cabellos 
El  rico  metal  de  Arabia, 
En  cuyos  lazes  aSuda 
Las  almas  mSs  libertadas. 
Tiene   Jarifa  la  frente 
De  un  liso  marfil  sacada, 
Con  sus  mejillas  hermosas, 

Y  sus  labios  de  esearlata: 
Son  las  manos  de  crista!, 
Nieve  el  pecho  y  la  garganta, 
Adonde   el  fuego  de  amor 
Invisiblemente  abrasa ; 

Y  aunque  en  su  comparacion 
Es  algo  morena  Zara, 

En  discreci6n  y  donaire 
A  las  demSs  aventaja, 
Que  la  flor  de  la  hermosura 
En  breve  tiempo  se  pasa, 

Y  es  don  que  jamfis   se  pierde 

La  discreci6n  y  la  gracia.""        (No.  76.) 

^  For  the  fair  type  of  Saracen  beauty  cf.  Enfances  Ogier,  1470  f.; 
4245;  Beuves  de  Commarcis,  715;  Oerusalemme  Liberata,  IV,  24  f.; 
VI,  92;  VII,  7;  XVII,  26. 


THE   MOOES  IN   SPANISH   POPULAR  POETRY.  299 

Thus,  superficial  description  triumphed  over  any  satis- 
factory detail  of  observation,  and  we  fall  into  the  deplor- 
able taste  of  the  latest  Moorish  ballads,  where  the  fair 
women  are  comj^ared  with  Venus,  Juno  and  Diana  (cf. 
ISTo.  77).  In  this  train  pass  by  the  god  of  Love,  the 
Muses  of  Parnassus  (ISTo.  77),  and  the  whole  motley  crew^ 
of  Renaissance  mythology.  This  incongruous  migration 
of  the  gods  and  goddesses  to  Moorish  Spain  is  especially 
noticeable  after  the  favor  of  the  Orlando  Furioso  caused 
it  to  be  imitated  in  Spain.  Duran  prints  thirty-three  of 
these  ballads  taken,  in  almost  all  cases,  from  the  Orlando 
Furioso.  Here  we  meet  Sacripante,  Eugero,  Angelica, 
Mandricardo,  Roldan,  Bradamante  and  the  rest,  all  faith- 
fully transplanted  from  the  Italian  poem,  and  with  the 
romance  and  mystery  of  Ariosto  and  Dore  still  clinging 
to  their  garments. 

And  thus  in  the  strange  irony  of  literary  history,  we 
have  completed  the  circle.  How  far  we  have  got  from  the 
Moors  of  Granada  and  Valencia  !  We  have  followed  them 
from  Spain  to  France,  from  France  to  Italy,  and  from 
Italy  to  Spain  again.  Such  has  been  the  course  of  the 
literary  current  which  we  have  been  following.  There  is 
no  more  curious  spectacle  in  literary  history  than  that 
afforded  by  the  Spanish  poets  of  1600  going  for  their 
Moors  to  the  Italian  poem  of  Ariosto.  The  reason,  of 
course,  is  that  Ariosto  was  admitted  then,  as  he  is  admitted 
now,  to  have  given  in  his  poem  the  final  word  of  the 
artist  on  the  mediaeval  strife  between  the  two  Religions. 
When  the  Spaniards  talked  about  the  Moors  in  poetry 
in  1600  they  Avanted  art  and  color, — not  truth. 

Yet  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  all  were  so  blind  as 
not  to  realize  how  far  astray  the  poets  had  wandered 
from  the  Moors  as  they  actually  were  in  sixteenth  century 
Spain.     This  brings  us  to  our  last  division, — that  of  the 


300  WILLIAM  WISTAK  COMFORT. 

romances  rnoriscos  satiricos.  These  ballads  give  grateful 
reading,  indeed,  to  one  who  has  made  his  weary  way 
through  the  preceding  mass  of  false  coloring  and  charac- 
terization. One  is  quite  in  the  mood  for  a  dash  of  satire. 
The  contemporary  poets  are  berated  by  these  patriotic 
iconoclasts  for  deserting  the  old  traditional  heroes : 

'"Los  Sanehos,  y  los  de  Lara, 
Que  es  de  ellos?  y  que  es  del  Cid? 
Tanlo  olvido  a  gloria  tanta!"  (No.  244.) 

Another  says  more  forciblv  than  elee'antlv: 

"VAyase  con  Dios  Gazul, 

Lleve  el   diablo  ft  Celindaja 

Ha  venido  &  su  noticia 

Que  hay  cristianos  en   Espafia  ? 

Est  fin  Fatinia  y  Jarifa 
Vendieiido  liigos  y   pasas, 

Y  cuenta  Lagarto  Hernandez 

Que  danzan  en  el  Alhaiubra! 

Y  al  Cegri,  que  fon  dos  asnos 
De  echar  agua  no  se  cansa, 
El  otro  disciplinante 

Pintale  rompiendo  lanzas!"  (No.  245) 

In  another  ballad  a  different  form  of  satire  is  employed. 
Here  it  is  the  Moors  themselves  who  resent  the  insults  done 
them  by  the  Christian  poets.  The  angry  Muza  sallies 
forth  from  the  Tower  of  Comares  with  dra^^^l  sword,  not 
to  kill  the  Abencerraje, 

"Mas  por  vengar  el  ultraje, 
Que  le  hacen  los  poetas 

En  canciones  y  romances 

'Que  me  dvielen  ya  los  lomos 
De  andar  cargado  de  trajes, 
Que  los  poetas  novicios 
Se  desvelan  en  sacarme, 
Conipuesto  de  mas  colores 

Que  tapete  de  Levante 

Pues  me  pintan,  ya  de  verde, 

Ya  de  bianco,  rojo  y  jalde'."   (No.  253.) 


'^j 


THE    MOOKS   IN   SPANISH   POPULAR   POETRY.  301 

Speaking  of  the  poets'  treatment  of  the  Moors,  another 
satirist  exclaims : 

"Para  qu6  los  entapizan 

Y  los  cubren  de  gualdrapas 
•                        De  alamares,  rapacejos, 

De    listones,    borlas,    bandas? 

Dejenlos  a  los  cuitados, 

Que  se  quejan  que  los  cansaii, 

Y  que  a  caballo  los  suben 

Cargados  de  eiupresas  varias."         (No.  256.) 

Instead  of  such  fanciful  descriptions,  says  the  satirist,  it 
would  be  more  proper  to  show  them  in  tlieir  humble 
employments  to  which  their  masters  had  subjected  them 
and  of  which  this  same  ballad  makes  mention. 

This  was  the  literary  triumph  of  the  defeated  and 
despised  Moors.  They  had  so  invaded  the  romantic  poetry 
of  the  sixteenth  century  that  the  very  Christian  poets 
themselves  were  compelled  to  cry  ''^Enough !"  A  single 
ballad  defends  the  presence  of  the  Moors,  and  from  it 
an  interesting  suggestion  may  be  drawn : 

"No  es  bieii  que  el  Cid,  ni  Bernardo, 
Ni  un  Diego  Ordonez  de  Lara, 
Un  valiente  Arias  Gonzalo, 
Un  famoso  Eodrigo  Arias, 
Cuyas  obras  de  ordinario 
Eran  correr  las  campaQas, 
Entren  &  danzar  compuestos 
Entre  el  amor  y  las  damas : 
A  Muza  le  esta  bien  esto, 
A  Arbolan  y  C4aliana, 
A  los  Cegries  y  Aliatares, 
Que  sieinpre  de  amor  trataban."  (No.  246.) 

This  leads  us  to  believe  that  when  love  and  gallantry  were 
in  question  the  oriental  color  and  Moorish  setting  were  de 
rigeur,  and  meant  no  disrespect  to  the  national  heroes.     In 


o 


02  WILLIAM  WISTAK  COMFOET. 


fact,  in  the  romances  moriscos  it  is  all  tournaments  and 
love-making;  whereas  in  the  ballads  about  the  national 
heroes  we  are  much  more  likely  to  find  vigor  and  vitality. 
This  handful  of  satiric  ballads  really  brings  us  back  to 
healthy  reality  after  all  the  flights  of -romance,  the  theatri- 
cal pageantry  of  gaily  decked  Moors,  of  which  we  have 
been  reading.  The  satire,  with  its  return  to  the  reality 
of  the  Cid  and  Fernan  Gongalez,  dealt  a  death-blow  to  the 
Moors  of  romance.  The  next  stage  takes  the  Moors  beyond 
the  sphere  of  our  study,  quite  out  of  anonymous  literature. 
Once  the  trenchant  pen  of  Cervantes  had  exposed  the 
disgraceful  spectacle  of  the  subjects  of  a  mighty  Christian 
sovereign  allowed  to  lie  in  the  chains  of  the  Berbery 
corsairs,  we  have  to  deal  with  personal  authorship  in  a 
new  sense.  Cervantes  was  an  agitator,  and  he  \vi'ote  as 
an  eye-witness  of  the  atrocities  conmiitted  and  endured  in 
Algiers.  In  his  realistic  comedias  and  novelas  we  may 
read  of  the  burning  shame  which  he  felt  for  Christendom 
temporizing  with  the  Infidels,  and  which  led  him  to  favor 
the  cruel  exile  of  the  imhappy  Moriscos  by  Philip  the 
Third  in  1610. 

Such  M^ere  the  literary  vicissitudes  through  which  the 
Moors  passed  from  the  time  of  their  first  appearance  in 
popular  poetry  until  the  political  crusade  of  the  seven- 
teenth century  drove  their  unhappy  descendants  from 
Spain.  We  cannot  but  feel  that  the  Christian  poets 
missed  an  opportunity.  They  have  really  told  us  little 
that  is  reliable  about  their  Infidel  neighbors.  In  all  but 
the  romances  moriscos  they  are  treated  objectively,  with 
but  little  attempt  to  penetrate  the  secrets  of  their  strange 
civilization.  When  they  tried  to  describe  them  subjec- 
tively, the  poets  totally  missed  the  Moorish  personality,  and 
contented  themselves  with  a  conventional  atmosphere  of 


THE    MOORS   IN   SPANISH   POPULAR  POETRY.  303 

Orientalismus    which    thej    threw    about    the    Paynini 
chivah-y. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  outline  the  treatment  accorded 
to  the  Saracens  at  the  hands  of  the  mediaeval  popular 
poets  of  southern  Europe.  Occasional  descendants  of  the 
hordes  that  overran  southern  Europe  penetrated  into  Eng- 
land, where  the  ''unspeakable  Turk"  looks  strange  in  a 
popular  ballad  or  in  an  Elizabethan  play.  But  after  the 
period  where  we  have  dropped  him,  the  Saracen  passed 
from  popular  into  historical  literature.  Travelers,  novel- 
ists and  dramatists  continue  to  give  us  tho  corsairs  and 
Turks  of  their  own  times.  But  the  popular  mediaeval 
legend  of  the  IMoors  is  at  an  end,  and  with  it  our  subject. 


J 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 
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